CHAPTER THIRTEEN

By half past nine, the clouds had cleared and the sky was blue over Table Mountain.

Suzanne had endured a scolding from Florence – who had woken before dawn and been beside herself with worry – but the glory of the winter’s morning made her spirits sing. She had dressed her hair, curling strands around damp pieces of cotton so it now hung in auburn ringlets beneath her best narrow-brimmed hat. She was wearing her finest cloak, bodice and skirt, and her boots were clean. If she was to meet Commander Van der Stel, she wanted to look her best.

Suzanne walked through streets now thronging with people of all colours and ages. She came to the site where a new church was being built on the foundations of the original wooden chapel. A white overseer was shouting at a line of Black slaves, who were transporting stones on their bare shoulders, and yelling abuse at free labourers who were carrying granite, slate and sandstone. The resigned expressions on the faces of the workers, and the whip in the overseer’s hand, angered her, and she hurried past.

Van Dijk was waiting at the gated entrance to the Castle.

‘See there,’ he said, pointing up towards Table Mountain. ‘The scrub that covers the lower slopes is known as fynbos. Beyond the limits of the town, you would see protea bushes with spiky flowers as big as my hand – red, pink, cream, yellow.’ He turned his gaze to Devil’s Peak. ‘And in the valleys between the mountains there are leopards – huge cat-like creatures with dark markings – and lions, caracals, grysbok and duiker, all part of God’s magnificent creation.’

‘You like it here?’ she asked, moved by the enthusiasm in his voice.

‘There is much to admire and marvel at in nature, but—’

‘But?’

‘There is good, and bad, in any situation. Come.’ He turned abruptly and walked into the compound. ‘It does not do to keep Commander Van der Stel waiting.’

‘How long have you been stationed here?’ Suzanne asked, as they hurried through the gate beneath the bell tower.

‘Nigh on ten years,’ he answered. ‘I had been intended for Batavia. My father was an administrator in the VOC and I was following in his footsteps. But I sailed with Commander Van der Stel, and he requested me to remain here.’

‘And became a soldier instead.’

He grinned. ‘No, that was never my calling. I am assigned to the administration offices.’

Suzanne frowned. ‘Then why are you in uniform?’

‘Once in every month, I take a watch with the guard.’

‘To stay in touch with the common soldier?’

‘Something like that, yes,’ he replied a little awkwardly. ‘Every man here should be ready to defend the Colony should the need arise, as able to use a musket as a pen.’

‘Is there an imminent danger of tribal wars?’

‘That, yes, but also against a possible attack by the British, or the French. Even the Portuguese are a potential threat, though their influence in the area is vastly diminished now.’

Suzanne had lived her entire life under the shadow of violence and death. She had been born in the plague years, when the French king was accelerating his persecution of Huguenots, and had grown up knowing that, at any moment, they might have to pack their belongings and flee for their lives. A trauma handed down from generation to generation, the fear was carried in their very bones.

When she and Florence had reached Amsterdam last autumn – finally safe from the dragonnades and king’s men – she had slept deeply for the first time in many months. Suzanne had hoped that there might be some greater measure of security in the Colony. That she might escape from the memory of what had been done to her. But listening to Adriaan van Dijk, hearing as much in what he did not say as in the words spoken, she realised she had been naive.

There and then she resolved that she would learn to handle a gun, that she would never again be caught without the means to defend herself.

As they walked through the central courtyard, Van Dijk explained how the Castle of Good Hope had been built on the foundations of a much older fort. Expanded, fortified and modernised in recent years, its stone façade was the shape of a pentagon. The buildings were painted yellow on the interior to minimise the fierce rays of the sun. Within the compound there was a bakery, workshops, living quarters for the garrisons, and holding cells for prisoners. The Castle was a town within a town.

‘There is also a chapel,’ he added, ‘which is currently serving as the main place of worship for the Colony while the new church is being built.’

As they walked past the colonnades and shaded walkways, Suzanne felt she could have been back in the Netherlands. It was a wholly Dutch development set incongruously in the vast African landscape. Only the birds gave the lie. All around them, rotund speckled creatures were pecking at the ground: white spots on black, blue helmets and a red crest. She found them oddly appealing.

‘Guinea fowl,’ Van Dijk said. ‘Pretty markings, but very stupid birds.’

They walked up stone stairs and into a panelled chamber with polished floorboards and a longcase clock. Woven tapestries of sea battles lost and won hung on the walls. Carved wainscot armchairs were set at intervals below them.

‘Stinkwood,’ Van Dijk muttered in her ear, ‘a highly prized timber from the high forests. There is never enough wood in the Cape.’

At the far end of the room, on a raised dais, a fleshy man in a black robe and white jabot sat writing at a long oak refectory table. His hair was so long and curled, so thick, that she wondered if it was a wig.

‘Just answer his questions truthfully,’ Van Dijk whispered as they came to a halt. ‘He is not a man who suffers fools.’ Then he raised his voice: ‘Commander, may I present Suzanne Joubert.’

For several minutes, or so it seemed, there was silence. Suzanne forced herself not to fidget. Finally, Simon van der Stel laid down his quill.

‘Are you interested in the natural world, juffrouw Joubert? This country is extraordinary – the colours, the flora and fauna, it is like nowhere else on earth. A botanist’s dream.’

Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this.

‘From the little I have seen, it is glorious,’ she replied cautiously. ‘I very much hope to travel into the interior and see for myself.’

‘You are French.’

‘I am of Dutch and French parentage.’

‘Your colouring favours the Dutch side. Do you know anything of wine?’

Suzanne blinked at the abrupt change of subject. ‘My family had an interest in a wine business in our home town of La Rochelle. Lost, now.’

‘No brothers?’

She held steady. ‘No brothers, nor family surviving beyond my grandmother and I.’

‘I have planted vines at my estate at Constantia. Europe is a dying continent. War after war after war. Here, in the southern hemisphere, this is where the future lies.’ The Commander tapped the table with his forefinger and Suzanne saw the tips of his fingers were stained black with ink. ‘They have named a town after me – Stellenbosch. Yet I would rather be remembered as the man who cultivated the highest quality wine in the Cape. My farm is barely established, but it is already yielding grapes the quality of which your French vintners would envy. I wish I could do more, but this –’ he waved his hand to take in the chamber – ‘occupies too much of my time.’

Not knowing how best to respond, Suzanne held her tongue.

‘Your co-religionists, do they have the skill to tend vines?’ he went on. ‘Our local wine is undrinkable, the brandy only just passable, our vinegar close to poison.’

Suzanne nodded. This she could answer. ‘The families who sailed on the China are all from a small region within Provence. It is a place of valleys, orchards, vines as far as the eye can see. If they have the tools, and the fertile land – and water, of course – they will succeed.’

‘Good. That is good.’

Seemingly satisfied by her answer, the Commander leant back in his chair and closed his eyes. Suzanne became aware of the ticking of the clock as the pendulum swung to and fro in its case.

Suddenly, Van der Stel’s eyes fully opened, his gaze direct and clear. For the first time she saw signs of the man who was admired, but also feared. He jabbed a finger at her across the table.

‘Tell me, Suzanne Joubert, what has really brought you here?’