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
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
‘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.
