Betrayal (9 page)

‘So, no expedition.’

‘Unhappily, no. And do be discreet in what you say, old fellow. The Spanish suspect there is some villainy afoot but can’t fathom from where.’

Kydd nodded. ‘But surely, with both the Spanish and French driven from the seas and not to be counted on to interfere, now is the best time to move.’

‘Quite.’

‘So, Miranda . . .’

Popham shook his head. ‘A shameful thing, I must own. Despairing that we will ever get another expedition together, he is proceeding on his own. His letter coldly informs me that he is shortly to descend on Caracas, the chief town in the north of the continent, there to raise the flag of revolution and independence for all the peoples of South America.’

‘And we do nothing?’

‘The plan called for us to move simultaneously against the viceroyalty of the River Plate in the south, Montevideo or wherever but . . .’

‘This is hard to take,’ Kydd growled. ‘Such a blow as will ring out around the world! Does not Whitehall see this? Have you had any kind of word?’

Popham gave a tired smile. ‘Pitt was not well when we sailed on this Cape venture. Conceivably he’s distracted by the news of Austerlitz.’

‘We don’t know that.’ Kydd had only recently heard of it: a land battle in some benighted place to the east, where Bonaparte had crushed the armies of both the Austrian and Russian emperors in a titanic battle. Most opinion had it that the Third Coalition, an alliance including Austria, Prussia, England, Russia and Sweden, was as good as destroyed.

Popham downed the rest of his wine. ‘If there are any designs to move against the River Plate we should be the first to know of it – we are the closest and the forces we employed on this expedition can only be said to be in idleness.’

‘But you’ve had no word?’

Popham shook his head.

The next afternoon Kydd insisted Renzi dine at his club and they went ashore together. As they left the old jetty for the noisome waterfront, Renzi stopped. ‘Er, there’s someone I’d rather not meet,’ he muttered, and turned about.

‘Wha—?’ At the end of the lane a distinguished-looking man was directing others in some sort of inventory, then Kydd recognised him. ‘It’s only your old fiscal, Ryneveld,’ he chided, knowing, however, that while Renzi had been colonial secretary this man had been his immediate subordinate. Now he was at an impossibly lofty eminence in government.

‘You can’t avoid him for ever, Nicholas,’ he said, and hailed the man. ‘Mr Fiscal, ahoy!’

Ryneveld came hurrying over. ‘Why, the Jonkheer Renzi,’ he said, with disarming warmth. ‘Since leaving your position you’ve been so engaged in your studies you’ve been neglecting your friends, sir.’

Renzi gave a stiff bow. ‘I stand accused and can only plead guilty, Schildknaap Ryneveld.’

‘Well, that’s a matter that can easily be remedied. Let me see . . . As it happens, my wife Barbetjie – whom you know, of course – is taking the girls up to the top of Table Mountain for an artistic expedition while the weather allows. Should you feel inclined, you two gentlemen would be very welcome to partake of our little picnic and perhaps to instruct them in their daubing.’

‘That’s very kind in you,’ Kydd said quickly. ‘We’d be honoured to attend.’

‘Splendid. Er, your ethnical work is proceeding satisfactorily, Mr Renzi? I cannot conceive how you might concentrate with all the martial excitement about your ears.’

‘It, er, progresses well, sir. And . . . and the government of Cape Colony, your distinguished new secretary?’

‘Ah, me,’ Ryneveld, said with a sigh. ‘Those heroic days, when together we snatched order from the chaos that threatened – I’m afraid these are long past, Mr Renzi. Now it’s work more fitting for the administrator and accountant, with Secretary Barnard still unwell from his long voyage.’

They walked on in silence for a space. Passing a well-weathered
wijnhuis
, they heard a manly bass booming out a jolly ballad:

‘Ah,’ Renzi said politely. ‘A folk song of the colony, no doubt hallowed by age. Do share with me what they are singing about, sir.’

‘You are right,’ Ryneveld said drily. ‘This is from the early days of our settlement, sung by returning sailors of the Dutch East India Company. But the words are not for ears such as yours, Jonkheer Renzi.’

Kydd hid a smile. ‘Nonetheless Mr Renzi, I’m sure, is interested in its ethnical, er, origins, Mr Ryneveld.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Why, yes,’ Renzi said.

‘Then it goes:

The rhyme and rhythm were quite lost in translation but the sentiment was clear.

‘You wish me to continue, sir?’

‘Please.’

The unknown rich bass rolled on:

‘And I’ll translate freely this last, touching as it does on our mariner’s delight in finding himself once more in Cape Town.’

‘Thank you, sir. Most informative,’ Renzi said cheerfully, now convinced there was no longer any need to hide his face when ashore.

‘And where shall we meet for your diverting expedition, pray?’ he added.

They were fortunate: the autumn weather was kind and a warm sun beamed down on the little party marvelling at the precipitous edge of Table Mountain and the spectacular panorama sprawled in meticulous miniature detail below.

They were not alone: other small groups were there, taking advantage of the benevolent conditions, and cheery greetings were exchanged by all who had made the vertiginous final ascent.

It had been carriages to the lower slopes of the giant mountain, followed by a panting scramble up past a waterfall shaded by myrtle. Then had come an arduous zigzag for some hours in the warm sunshine, until in the very shadow of the final vertical shafting of the vast monolith a cool chasm had opened. This was the Platteklip Gorge, their pass to the summit, and pausing to drink at a crystal spring, they emerged at last at the top.

There were no trees, only some wistfully beautiful tiny flowers and heath with moss and lichen, and for the rest a bare grey ruler-straight flatness stretching away for what seemed miles, one of nature’s truly impressive vistas. Exclaiming at the sight, the girls claimed their vantage-points, and the party joined in a tasty repast of cold meats and Cape wine.

After the picnic had been cleared away, Kydd found a spot and set up his easel, Renzi on his right. The breeze fluttered at the paper, which he clipped down firmly. After he had industriously sharpened his best Cumberland pencil, he set to.

Like most naval officers he had learned to take the likeness of a coastline and he had found he was in possession of an artistic talent. Looking out now at a prospect worthy of the greatest artists, he felt inspired: he was on the rim of the world and, in the blue-misty distance, could see the rumpled pair of mountains at the far end of the curve of coast that was Blaauwberg where, not so very long ago, two armies had vied for dominion of the Cape. Nearer, many ships were anchored offshore – Cape Town was clearly prospering by the opening of trade with the world. With a surge of pride he picked out
L’Aurore
among the bigger naval vessels in their more northerly anchorage, yards meticulously square, a perfect toy at this distance.

As he sketched in the outlines in deft strokes, he pondered over what Popham had confided. There was sense in what he had said about their situation being out of sight, out of mind: he had seen it once before – as a new officer on the quiet North America station in Halifax, Nova Scotia. There he had met men who had been in ships that had been sent out at the beginning of the war and were still there with no foreseeable prospect of either engaging in some momentous fleet action or returning home.

He had welcomed the relative tranquillity for the space it gave him to learn his profession, but it was a different matter here. Now he was a young captain at the outset of his career. If he failed to make his mark soon, others would overtake him, gaining the plum promotions, the more powerful frigates – and be the ones to go on with the great admirals to who knew what glorious actions?

And there was another element to be considered. He was now a very eligible bachelor, by most standards, and it was on the cards that he would fall in love and want to marry. While he had command of a far-ranging frigate, it was essential to make the going in amassing prize-money now for, as Popham could testify, there was little to be had in the larger ships. While he still had a respectable sum from his privateering days, it was not enough to buy and run a country estate.

Then again, Bonaparte had triumphed on land, but how long could a war be relied on to last now that the tyrant was locked up in Europe with nowhere to go? Peacetime would see an instant freezing of promotions and certainly no opportunity for fattening the purse.

If there was a time to become active, it was now.

The outline of his scene was complete. He hooked up the box of watercolours to the base of the easel and sighed. It was not in his power to summon the French to a desperate battle. With few casualties and the unfortunate loss of the corvette, the recent action on the Zambezi would hardly raise eyebrows. If only Whitehall had seen fit for a grand assault against Spanish South America. The British had proved their amphibious skills at Blaauwberg, and such a mission could well be a repeat of that.

Suddenly restless, he glanced sideways at the girls, gossiping blithely as they worked on their landscapes. Seized by an odd feeling, he dabbed in a fearsome ox-eye, the dreadful storm portent he had seen off East Africa before a particularly violent tempest. It was colourful and vivid but didn’t fit the scene. He realised he’d spoiled the painting, laid down his brush in vexation and decided to take a stroll.

Kydd had worked fast and the others in the party hadn’t yet exchanged their pencils for brushes. Over to the right he noticed a dark-haired rather shabby figure rapidly executing his landscape. Unusually for a watercolour he was using a full-sized maulstick and worked with quick, economic movements. Kydd wandered over and stood behind him. Clearly this was no amateur: his field easel was well used and he was building his scene over a luminous cerulean wash that gave a shimmering quality to the foreground elements, which gained animation as a result.

‘A lively piece,’ Kydd offered, leaning closer.

The man, a young, intense individual with sun-touched Iberian features, turned, nodded brusquely and returned to his work. Kydd looked closer at the landscape, realising he’d seen the style before. That was it: the gunroom had bought two of his paintings.

‘You paint professionally, then?’ Kydd asked.

Hooking his maulstick in a little finger, the man felt in his waistcoat, drew out a card and handed it over, then resumed his rapid brush-strokes with unsettling concentration. The card read: ‘Vicente Serrano, Painter in Oils, Watercolour and Gouache. Portraits and Landscapes to the Discerning by Arrangement. 150 Buitengracht Street.’

‘You’re Spanish, then?’ Kydd asked, puzzled.

This time he got full attention. ‘No, sir!’ Serrano spat. ‘I am not! A
porteño
of Buenos Aires, which is in South America.’ He glared at Kydd, then resumed his work.

‘Oh – I didn’t wish to pry, Mr Serrano. It’s just that the gunroom in my ship is an admirer of your work. There’s now two pieces hanging there to ornament their mess-place.’

There was a pause and a flashed glance back. ‘So sorry. I leave Buenos Aires because the Spanish they come for me when I speak what they don’ like. I cannot return. Now I paint the picture for my bread.
Por favor, Señor
. . .’ He recharged his brush and continued on the landscape.

Kydd went back to his easel and began another view. This time it was with a calm grey-blue wash, like the one he had just seen, and he wanted to make a good job of it. Perhaps he would send it home to his mother.

Stretching, he looked across at Renzi, who had gone to one of the girls and was leaning over her in conversation. He was by no means as accomplished as Kydd, proficient but with a light style that lacked individuality. Should he go over and set them both straight on the finer points?

He got up, but when he looked again he was astonished to see the girl blush deeply, glance around and then go with Renzi out of sight over the edge of the broad top of the mountain.

Renzi? Near betrothed to his sister? Scandalised, he considered whether to follow but realised that whatever he did would be misunderstood so he waited awkwardly at the girl’s easel, ignoring flashed glances from the others. After an age the two appeared again. When the girl saw Kydd, her eyes widened and her hand flew guiltily to her mouth.

‘Um, er – this is Miss Felicity,’ Renzi said awkwardly. ‘Captain Kydd of
L’Aurore
, my dear.’

At a loss, Kydd merely bowed and looked at Renzi.

‘Oh, er, Miss Felicity wishes my opinion of her
veduta
. What is your taking, at all?’

It was a fine, intricate and painstaking work. With not an ounce of life in it. However, Kydd mumbled something anodyne, then added in a significant tone, ‘And I would be obliged for your opinion on mine, Nicholas.’

At his easel Kydd turned on Renzi. ‘Sir, might I make so bold as to enquire—’

Renzi cut him off: ‘In a private way of things Miss Felicity was of some assistance to me,’ he said bitingly, ‘in the article of what a lady might see in a novel. In peril of her reputation she made free of her feelings in the matter. Shall we join the others?’