Conquest Page 21

  The whaler was being bullied sideways by the onrushing waves and Kydd didn’t want to detain it, but Poulden asked, in some concern, ‘An’ shall we stay wi’ ye, sir? Could be cannibals an’ all behind them dunes.’

  ‘We’ll be fine, thank you. Goodbye.’

  The little group formed up, the two marines trying not to be awed by the daunting spectacle of the limitless wilderness. Canteens were slung, small bags swung over shoulders and they set out.

  The sun was ferocious, the heat almost like a weight bearing down as they paced along, grateful for the hard sand underfoot. Sergeant Dodd carried a light pole, at its tip signal flag numeral one fluttering out to signify to watching telescopes, ‘Am proceeding normally’.

  Conversation was an effort, and they swung on in silence until, after an hour, Kydd called a halt.

  Peyton sat in the soft sand, his head in his hands, but Kydd was not inclined to be sympathetic. ‘I’m looking for signs – clues that tells me they’ve been this way. Anything at all – cast-off pieces of baggage, empty water canteens, things thrown aside.’ Glancing scornfully at Peyton, he added, ‘But if there’s no evidence by sundown, we return aboard.’

  They each took a careful swallow of water and moved on. Ahead there was nothing but a featureless glaring haze, a glittering white mist hanging over the crashing breakers, as far as the eye could see. By midday it was clear they needed to shelter from the blazing heat.

  An outcrop of rock ahead had a shadow underneath and they thankfully plodded up to it but the sun-heated slabs were like a stove-top, burning to the touch. They rounded the ridge and found a deeper ledge, which offered a haven of cool in its shade.

  Seeing Peyton’s red face, Kydd suggested, ‘Cullis – take the doctor’s kerchief and soak it in the sea, will you?’ The marine collected one from all of them and returned with blessed coldness for each man. Kydd fretted at the delay but in these inhuman conditions there was little choice and they stayed in their crevice.

  At about three he ventured out. They had to get going and with a light onshore breeze it was just bearable. ‘On your feet, gentlemen – remember what we’re about.’

  The shape and colour of the dunes was changing, a dramatic deep yellow-brown shading into iron red but always the pallid under-colour of bleached desert sand. Twisting valleys leading into the interior appeared in the dunes, and once they crossed what surely was the broad emerging of a dried-up river. Here and there were splashes of faded green, vegetation hanging on to some kind of existence in this infernal region.

  A little further on a small salt marsh opened up. Calloway froze, then slowly pointed across to the base of a rearing sand-hill.

  ‘Wha’ . . . ?’

  Slowly and methodically, as if in a dream, five elephants plodded past in the sand, ears flapping and occasional snorts proving their reality. Winding around the sand-hill, they disappeared from sight as if they’d never been.

  The little party went on, one foot in front of the other in mechanical rhythm. At one place they stumbled through a field of sea-rounded pebbles, a startling profusion of varicoloured granite, lava and agate, and every so often a gaunt, sand-scoured ghost tree leaning out of wind-sculpted pastel dunes, some of which were near a thousand feet to their sharp summits.

  A point of rock protruded out in the beach, obscuring the view ahead. When they rounded it there was another surprise: the bizarre sight at the tide-line of the carcass of a beached Antarctic whale. As they passed it what they saw brought them to a standstill – an animal had been recently feeding on it, the claw and toothmarks savage and massive.

  ‘Lions!’ It could be nothing else.

  Fearfully they looked around. It was past imagining – a lion feeding on a whale! This desolate coast was proving to be anything but that.

  ‘Stay together!’ Kydd could think of nothing else to say – going after shipwreck survivors armed with heavy muskets would have been nonsensical. They resumed their monotonous tramping, tired muscles burning.

  More mighty whale-bones were passed; was this why the first Portuguese had called it the coast of skeletons? Then the beach ahead began to curve, a long sweep that allowed them to see ahead for miles into an empty distance. And still there was no sign whatsoever.

  ‘We carry on to an hour before sunset!’ Kydd snapped, at a comment from the doctor. Then they would make the signal and quit this God-forsaken place, reluctantly leaving the survivors to their fate.

  They trudged on, each wrapped in a private world of heat, weariness and fiery muscles until, the sun descending to the sea, it was time. Looking out at the horizon Kydd tried to make out L’Aurore but she was far offshore, out of sight at their height of eye.

  Uneasily, he saw there was now a difficulty: mesmerised by their plodding progress he had not noticed that the seas had imperceptibly increased, their regular booming roar and hiss being no more than a constant background he had filtered out. Now they were foaming in at a height that would cause the whaler to swamp over the gunwale, or be uncontrollable and end tumbling broadside. Against the odds, the boat might make it in but would certainly not get off again.

  They were trapped ashore.

  Dully, he tried to focus. He cursed his stupidity in overlooking the elementary check. They’d simply have to spend the night ashore and try again in the morning.

  ‘Take down that flag and hoist numeral two and three,’ he told Calloway. The message would tell L’Aurore that the seas were too high for boat operations, and Gilbey would realise that this meant they would necessarily be staying ashore overnight.

  ‘Let’s find somewhere to get our heads down,’ he said apologetically, after explaining their predicament.

  With loud groans from Peyton they went up the beach to a stony bluff and, in the fading daylight, found they had a choice between lying on hard rock still warm from the sun or the open beach, which was noticeably cooler now. To a man they lay on the soft sand; with painful limbs, and trying not to think of roaming wild beasts, they sought the solace of sleep.

  Did lions sleep at night? Where were the elephants now? What other beasts were out there beyond the dunes? Aching and weary, tossing and turning in the gritty sand, Kydd finally drifted off.

  After a few hours he woke to pitch darkness, damp and cold. A heavy dew had descended and they were all sodden to the skin; in the night breeze they began to shiver uncontrollably. Peyton cursed endlessly in a monotone, hugging his knees, while the marines stoically endured.

  There was no question of sleep now, but as a full moon rose none could find words to appreciate the haunting beauty of the stark and mysterious scene that unfolded.

  The moon rose higher, the light almost enough to read a book by. One of the marines got to his feet and paced up and down, flapping his arms for warmth. He was joined by the other and then Calloway stood and asked, teeth chattering, ‘Sir, the survivors – it sits bad with me, we’re leaving ’em now. While we’re stranded, just to get warm can’t we . . . go on a-ways?’

  ‘Sit down, you fool boy!’ Peyton snarled, but Kydd was touched.

  ‘I’m putting it to the vote, Doctor. All those agreeable to pushing on for a bit longer . . . ?’

  The two marines instantly nodded, and with Kydd and the midshipman also in favour, there was nothing Peyton could do. ‘So we go on for a while. Of course, Doctor, you’re free to remain here, if you so wish.’

  Grumbling under his breath, Peyton got up, brushing the sand away while their gear was collected and distributed.

  The trudging pain resumed, but this time in a surreal landscape of silvered contrasts. Then, within minutes, the whole situation changed.

  Dodd spotted it first. Above the tide-line and close up to the shifting base of the dunes a little mound stretched lengthways. When they went over they saw a crudely fashioned cross at its head.

  And there were footprints, not yet entirely filled by the restless sand, proof that this had occurred recently. The survivors, therefore, were somewhere ahead. />
  Kydd guessed they were moving by the cool of the night so he and his party must also. Forgetting the pain, they pressed on, and in another hour Calloway’s sharp eyes picked up a cast-away leather bottle and, further on, some pieces of clothing.

  Into the night they continued, hoping against hope for a sight of faraway moonlit figures and the end of the quest. At one point there was an ominous sound to their left – a reverberation so low-pitched it was more sensed than heard. They tried to make it out: a long, muffled, dull roaring somewhere out in the sand-hills. Numbly they waited for the nameless beast to emerge – then the noise slowed and stopped: some inscrutable force of nature at work in the towering dunes.

  It was another hour before they came upon the corpses, dark shapes on the edge of the dunes. Closer, the moonlight pitilessly revealed an elderly man, burned to disfiguring by the sun, laid out in dignified repose, his hands crossed over his breast, eyes closed. And a woman by his side, one arm over his body, her sightless eyes staring up, horror and suffering still on her face.

  The doctor examined them, then stood up slowly. ‘No more than hours ago,’ he said, his voice falsely brisk. ‘I conceive that the man could not go on and . . . and his wife stayed by him.’

  Sergeant Dodd dropped to his knees and began scooping out the sand. Cullis joined him and a little later the two bodies were laid to rest for ever.

  In the cold hours before dawn they found faint footprints, but this time meandering, scuffed, meaningless. Then the moon faded and darkness returned for a time. The swell had quietened during the night, now only a lazy boom and hiss.

  Daybreak finally came, and with it, the cruellest stroke. It brought a dank mist that developed into a full-scale rolling sea-fog – there was now no way of signalling to L’Aurore.

  A dense fog to rival any on the Thames here on this scorching desert coast! They were trapped ashore.

  Their hard tack had long since gone and their precious water was unlikely to last for much longer – should they go on?

  Visibility dropped to yards and it became difficult to make out even themselves, but nobody seemed to want to slacken the pace. Hunger biting, limbs afire, they slogged on – but then Kydd held up his hand for silence. He’d heard a commotion ahead: faint cries, a general hubbub.

  Pushing through the swirling fog-bank, they hurried forward, tripping painfully on dark, jagged rock shards protruding from the sands at what must be a point of land – and beyond they found themselves in the middle of a colony of seals, which, in their quarrelling, completely ignored them.

  They stumbled through the bedlam. It was bitterly disappointing. At the end of his stamina, Kydd knew it would be asking too much of his men to carry on blindly in the hope of reaching the survivors, who might be a mile – five miles – ahead and still moving. They had to give up – it was not humanly possible to—

  And then the fog lifted.

  Chapter 10

  * * *

  ‘And then?’ Renzi prompted, caught up in the drama of the story Kydd was telling. He made much of topping up his friend’s lemon punch and waited impatiently for him to continue.

  Kydd eased his legs on the foot-cushion. ‘Nicholas, well, the fog lifted and there they were – when we got to them they fell on their knees and blessed God, because they’d taken us for savages about to finish ’em.’

  ‘Why ever did they think to walk to Cape Town?’

  ‘A falling-out. After the wrecking, with the captain dead, it was the first mate who took charge and set out in a boat with three men, leaving the second mate to command. He lost authority and was murdered by those who thought they were done for anyway and had taken to drinking.

  ‘It was a brave passenger who led the party out, not even knowing how far but thinking it better to do something than nothing. They were twenty-nine to begin and lost several on the way, but we ended taking off twenty-six, including a plucky mother and child.’

  ‘As are all singing paeans of your action in coming after them,’ Renzi said warmly. ‘It’s the talk of the town, brother!’

  ‘Er, Nicholas – they being Danes, shall they be . . .’

  ‘The governor has graciously deemed that as shipwrecked mariners they be given the liberty of Cape Town and may freely return to their homes when convenient.’

  Kydd heaved himself up in the chair and changed the subject. ‘So, since I was away, the Dutch have given in.’

  ‘They have indeed, so quickly that General Beresford complains he’s robbed of a famous battle. In fine, the Articles of Capitulation were signed, which makes over the whole of Cape Colony to His Majesty, after General Janssens was satisfied that the honours of war would be accorded, which Baird did right nobly by him.’

  ‘I hear he’s been granted residence at the Governor’s House.’

  ‘Until he is to return to Holland, with all his troops and arms under cartel.’

  ‘To go back freely?’ Kydd said, in amazement. ‘This is an astonishing thing in an unconditional surrender.’

  ‘But a masterly stroke. Here Baird’s concluded a rapid peace. He’s won the sympathy of the Cape Dutch, with his extravagant expressions of respect for the previous governor and, above all, he need not feed and guard thousands. The French in Dutch command, of course, are prisoners-of-war and will not taste freedom.’

  ‘I can’t see why Janssens surrendered when he was in such a strong position among his people in the country.’

  ‘No mystery. His numbers were always fewer than we supposed, and Baird let it be known that we’re daily reinforced, allowing him to send as many of our troops as he chose. It was a brave gamble but it had its effect – there was no stomach to face those devils the Highlanders again in a lost cause, and in any case, the majority of his soldiers were Boer militia who deserted the colours, placing their desire to return to their farms above their duty.’

  ‘Then it might be said we’ve completed the conquest of the Cape.’

  ‘Indeed. Governor Baird is now undisputed ruler of Cape Colony, the soldiers are stood down before the civil authorities and, as we talk, are creating a bob’s-a-dying in every shageerijen in the town. Our ball has done its work for there’s much expression of amiability in the people, the merchants seeing undoubted advantage in falling in with the new order.’

  ‘So now we’ve nothing to worry of, you’ll be spending your days setting taxes and hearing grievances, m’ friend. Hardly a life of adventure.’

  ‘Well, until we get our reinforcements from England, we’re in a fragile state. In confidence, I have to tell you that a determined assault will place us in a perilous situation indeed. And Baird is troubled that we have no idea of what form the French retaliation will take, as surely it must.’

  ‘Never fear, old fellow! You may rest easy while the Navy’s here to look after you.’

  Renzi gave his friend a conspiratorial look. ‘On quite another note, when you’re of a mind to taste the delights of the Cape, a certain lady seems to have delayed her return to her wine estate, a most uncommon thing, wagging tongues are saying. I’ve a notion that should you pay your addresses there will be an eager listener to the hero of the hour recounting his ordeal . . .’

  Kydd smiled lazily. ‘Thérèse? Perhaps I shall find time to call upon the lady. And your plans?’

  ‘Ah. As colonial secretary my responsibilities do include the country folk. I’ve a yen to take a visit – see the lie of the land, so to speak,’ he said casually.

  ‘To see your curiosities of Africa is your meaning, you villain,’ Kydd chided.

  Renzi chuckled. ‘All in the way of duty, of course . . . I’m minded to go to Stellenbosch, not so distant and highly regarded for its wine-growing. I may tell you of it on my return,’ he added.

  Vastly content after his meal, Renzi sipped his prime Constantia, delighting in its freshness and zest, quite different from the fashionable but sombre European offerings that must make the long passage from the Cape across the equator.

  The develo
ping African sunset was at its most compelling: the quality of the spreading blaze of orange and smoky reds exceeded anything he had seen before and he absorbed it in a reverent silence.

  ‘Another koeksister, Jonkheer Renzi?’ Van der Riet, the landdrost of Stellenbosch and his host, asked politely. Renzi declined, surfeited by the sticky confection, but the large man helped himself to another two. They sat together in comfortable cane chairs on the stoep of the residence.

  ‘A good day, Mr Secretary.’

  ‘It was indeed,’ Renzi agreed. A steady stream of the hard-working people of this second oldest Dutch settlement had come to take the oath of allegiance, and the returns of the government muster were in scrupulous order, as were the revenue books.

  ‘And a splendid repast to conclude the day!’ Renzi added, in praise of the roast hindquarter of bontebok. ‘The bounty of this fine land continues to amaze.’

  His heart was full. The Cape was all that could be wished for in a new life, healthy and with limitless prospects for growth. Here, Cecilia and he would put down roots and begin their life together.

  ‘Do you mind, sir?’ Van der Riet drew out a long clay pipe and stoked it with dagga, the sweet Cape-grown tobacco. ‘I find it eases the mind after a day’s concentration.’

  After a few satisfied puffs, he went on quietly, ‘You wonder why we accept your rule so readily. I will tell you. It is because we hanker after the lekker lewe – the good life that comes from the taming of a hard land. Any that can provide us with the security and freedom to do this, we will submit to.’

  Unspoken was the other side of the bargain: if security was not provided, neither would be the loyalty. ‘I understand you, Mijnheer,’ Renzi replied. If the French established themselves ashore, this tenuous fealty would evaporate and they would be left to their own slender resources. But, of course, all they had to do now was to hang on until the consolidating troops and support arrived from England and they would be impregnable. But in the meantime . . .

  The landdrost took another puff. ‘Did you find your expedition to the mountains agreeable?’