Conquest

Kydd gave a tight smile – as long as they had a result by nightfall . . . and there was, of course, the necessity to obtain local information. Aware of the expectant looks from Stirk and Poulden he offered a shilling. ‘Will you take this?’

‘Lord love yer! O’ course. Now m’ tally is Jones, shall we say, an’ I’d admire to know how th’ old country is faring. I don’t get t’ see too many o’ me countrymen out here – I tell a lie, I’ve never even seen hide of an Englishman since—’

‘Later, Mr Jones. What we’d like to do is hire that two-master out there. Do you think it possible?’

‘It’s possible if I say so.’ Three heavy china cups appeared and a rich scarlet liquid was splashed into them from a nameless bottle. ‘Take a snorter o’ that, then. Tell me what ye thinks.’

It was remarkably good: full-bodied and honest, quite distinct from a European claret. ‘A fine drop, Mr Jones,’ Kydd said sincerely, adding, ‘And we’ll need a muzzler each for my stout boat’s crew.’ There would be ribaldry on the mess-decks later as it was learned that the captain had stood a round for them in the line of duty.

He took another sip. ‘You said Major Hooft is interested in profit?’ he prodded.

‘Ye’ve had dealin’s with the bastard already? He’s a militia major only, puts on these dandy-prat airs and he’s aught but a jumped up revenooer, takes a tax on the grains comin’ from up-country an’ there’s not a soul but hates the sight o’ him.’

‘So his fort’s really nothing to speak of?’

Stirk jerked to his feet, swearing and lashing at his trousers until a large lizard scuttled away. He sat again slowly, trying to look casual.

‘Fort? It’s big enough, wi’ great guns an’ all. Tell me, Batavia bein’ y’r enemy, have ye any thought o’ making a strike agin the Cape? It’s a right dimber place as would—’

‘Less’n a week ago we defeated the Dutch at Blaauwberg. Cape Town is ours.’

‘Glory be! So the Cape is British . . .’

‘Well, er, the Dutch governor is still in the mountains with an army – but, never fear, our redcoats are on their way to dispute with him.’

This was met with a cynical smile. ‘Oh? In back-country mountain kloofs he knows s’ well? He’s a-waiting f’r the Boers to come from the veld t’ reinforce him. Then he’ll be down on ye.’

Kydd grimaced and changed the subject. ‘Mr Jones – how is it you, as an Englishman, are suffered to remain free under Batavian rule?’

‘Another beker van die wyn, Cap’n?’ Grinning, Stirk and Poulden pushed their cups forward. ‘It’s like this. There’s every kind o’ human on God’s earth livin’ here, an’ as long as we don’t kick up a moil, the country’s big enough f’r us all, so it is.’

‘But—’

‘We’re two thousan’ leagues from Europe, an’ we live different in Africa. Enough worryin’ about bein’ took by a rhino or lion without we start marchin’ up ’n down. Xhosa war drums on th’ frontier an’ Khoikhoi going scared, we’ve plenty t’ vex us without we take after your Napoleyong an’ friends.’

Kydd slapped at an insect but was too late: its spiteful sting lanced his arm. ‘That’s as may be, Mr Jones,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m to ask you again. Are you willing to hire your vessel to the Crown?’

‘Well, as t’ that . . .’ He flicked a rag expertly. ‘It’s not rightly m’ own. Belongs t’ Joseph M’Bembe. Ye’ll need to speak wi’ him.’

Swallowing his annoyance, Kydd asked, ‘Where can we find him, then?’

‘Oh, I c’n send a younker when we’re ready. Stayin’ f’r vittles? There’s a right fine mutton bredie as is waitin’ f’r attention . . .’

Kydd found another coin and slid it across. ‘Do you ask Mr Bemby to call and I’d be much obliged,’ he said heavily.

‘No hurry, Cap’n. We’ve time – you’ll tell me o’ London this time o’ year. How’s y’r—’

‘I’d take it kindly should you send for Mr Bemby NOW!’

With a hurt look Jones put fingers into his mouth and whistled. A barefoot child rushed in, his hand held out meaningfully. He looked askance at Kydd’s coin but after a scolding in some native dialect he scampered off.

‘Well, now, we was speakin’ of London an’ what sport’s t’ be found this time o’ year . . .’

The dark bulk of a massively built man appeared at the steps up to the terrace, then stopped, looking suspiciously at the three white men. ‘Se vir my wie jy is?’ he said softly, in a voice that was rich and deep.

‘They’s English, Joe, like me.’

‘What you want?’

‘To hire your vessel, Mr Bemby,’ Kydd rapped. If he didn’t get satisfaction in the next five minutes he would think again about the whole venture.

‘That your ship?’

‘It is.’

‘Why you want mine?’ The eyes were small but shrewd.

‘I’m offering to hire your whole vessel for three days, its crew not needed. The purpose is our business.’

‘English. You’s going agin the Dutch an’ you need my ship.’

‘I didn’t say—’