weather seemed to have blown itself out and, almost apologetically, the sun began spreading its warmth and good feeling about the anchorage.
L’Aurore
went to two anchors and secured fore and aft in preparation for the fumigation. Early in the afternoon a towed lighter approached and, gleefully, the ship’s company made ready for their liberty.
‘Cap’n Kydd, sir,’ a large Dutchman said, raising his shapeless hat as he came over the bulwark. ‘Piet Geens. Are ye prepared a’tall?’
‘We are.’ Kydd was used to the routine with his long service in the Navy.
Geens walked back and shouted something down to the men in the lighter and returned. ‘Well, we’m ready to start, Kapitein.’
In high spirits the liberty-men were sent on their way, leaving
L’Aurore
echoing and empty, the only ones left aboard being Kydd, a small party of men on deck to assist – and keep an eye on proceedings – and Renzi.
A row-guard provided by
Diadem
slowly circled as the Dutchman and Kydd went below to spy out the task. ‘What’s your method, Mr Geens?’ Kydd asked.
‘Why, the only one as truly answers, Mijnheer. An’ recommended by y’r Transport Board itself for th’ use of India troopships. In short, fumes o’ vitriol. Kills rats ’n’ mice, weevil an’ cockroach. All that creeps an’ crawls ends the same.’
This was the deepest form of fumigation possible but the ship had to be sealed for greatest effect. The platform timbers above the hold had been removed and the men’s belongings taken to the upper deck; gear was becketed back out of the way, gratings covered with tarpaulins and hatchways closed with laced canvas flaps. ‘Ver’ good, Kapitein. We begin. In twenty-four hours you have y’r ship back, sweet as a nut.’
An alarming number of casks and sacks were piled on deck. Curious, Kydd went across and peered into one. It was filled with crude yellow cakes. ‘That’s y’r common flowers o’ sulphur,’ Geens said.
‘And this?’ Kydd held up a sack of dirty white crystals.
‘Is best nitre. Sulphur don’t burn s’ well, we give it nitre – one part to every eight o’ the yellow cake. Then we get plenty o’ them vitriolic acid fumes. Want t’ see?’
‘Er, no, I’ll leave it all to you, Mr Geens,’ Kydd said. ‘Carry on, please.’
Tin pans were charged with a small coil of quick-match in the coarse-ground mixture and distributed below. Men with pails of mud moved about, completing the seal and shortly afterwards the first acrid whiffs could be detected.
‘Time we weren’t here, Nicholas.’
The Africa Club welcomed Kydd warmly. Word of the little action in East Africa had got about, and in a dark-polished room ornamented with game trophies and shields with crossed assegais, those waiting for a full accounting of it had assembled.
‘Have t’ hand it to ye, Kydd, ’twas a grand stroke!’ The red-faced and moustachioed ivory trader, Ditler, chortled, beckoning him to an adjacent leather chair. ‘A peg o’ whisky for y’ tale.’
Others drew up their chairs companionably but Kydd remained standing. ‘And this is my particular friend, Nicholas Renzi,’ he said pointedly.
‘Of course he is,’ soothed the cocoa planter Richardson, ‘as will have a whisky too, eh, Renzi? Hey?’
‘Thank you, no,’ Renzi said politely. ‘Although anything out of Stellenbosch would gratify, if it does not inconvenience.’ If any knew him as other than Captain Kydd’s friend, it could not be detected in their expressions.
Kydd found himself in the seat of honour in the centre and awaited his libation.
Despite what Popham had said, a lengthy stay in Cape waters had its compensations, he had to admit. Who would have thought, in those impossibly remote days in the musty Guildford wig shop, that he would later find himself in a splendid gold-laced uniform in these exotic surroundings?
‘Thank you, Cuthbert,’ he said, accepting his whisky – a single malt, he was pleased to note.
L’Aurore
went to two anchors and secured fore and aft in preparation for the fumigation. Early in the afternoon a towed lighter approached and, gleefully, the ship’s company made ready for their liberty.
‘Cap’n Kydd, sir,’ a large Dutchman said, raising his shapeless hat as he came over the bulwark. ‘Piet Geens. Are ye prepared a’tall?’
‘We are.’ Kydd was used to the routine with his long service in the Navy.
Geens walked back and shouted something down to the men in the lighter and returned. ‘Well, we’m ready to start, Kapitein.’
In high spirits the liberty-men were sent on their way, leaving
L’Aurore
echoing and empty, the only ones left aboard being Kydd, a small party of men on deck to assist – and keep an eye on proceedings – and Renzi.
A row-guard provided by
Diadem
slowly circled as the Dutchman and Kydd went below to spy out the task. ‘What’s your method, Mr Geens?’ Kydd asked.
‘Why, the only one as truly answers, Mijnheer. An’ recommended by y’r Transport Board itself for th’ use of India troopships. In short, fumes o’ vitriol. Kills rats ’n’ mice, weevil an’ cockroach. All that creeps an’ crawls ends the same.’
This was the deepest form of fumigation possible but the ship had to be sealed for greatest effect. The platform timbers above the hold had been removed and the men’s belongings taken to the upper deck; gear was becketed back out of the way, gratings covered with tarpaulins and hatchways closed with laced canvas flaps. ‘Ver’ good, Kapitein. We begin. In twenty-four hours you have y’r ship back, sweet as a nut.’
An alarming number of casks and sacks were piled on deck. Curious, Kydd went across and peered into one. It was filled with crude yellow cakes. ‘That’s y’r common flowers o’ sulphur,’ Geens said.
‘And this?’ Kydd held up a sack of dirty white crystals.
‘Is best nitre. Sulphur don’t burn s’ well, we give it nitre – one part to every eight o’ the yellow cake. Then we get plenty o’ them vitriolic acid fumes. Want t’ see?’
‘Er, no, I’ll leave it all to you, Mr Geens,’ Kydd said. ‘Carry on, please.’
Tin pans were charged with a small coil of quick-match in the coarse-ground mixture and distributed below. Men with pails of mud moved about, completing the seal and shortly afterwards the first acrid whiffs could be detected.
‘Time we weren’t here, Nicholas.’
The Africa Club welcomed Kydd warmly. Word of the little action in East Africa had got about, and in a dark-polished room ornamented with game trophies and shields with crossed assegais, those waiting for a full accounting of it had assembled.
‘Have t’ hand it to ye, Kydd, ’twas a grand stroke!’ The red-faced and moustachioed ivory trader, Ditler, chortled, beckoning him to an adjacent leather chair. ‘A peg o’ whisky for y’ tale.’
Others drew up their chairs companionably but Kydd remained standing. ‘And this is my particular friend, Nicholas Renzi,’ he said pointedly.
‘Of course he is,’ soothed the cocoa planter Richardson, ‘as will have a whisky too, eh, Renzi? Hey?’
‘Thank you, no,’ Renzi said politely. ‘Although anything out of Stellenbosch would gratify, if it does not inconvenience.’ If any knew him as other than Captain Kydd’s friend, it could not be detected in their expressions.
Kydd found himself in the seat of honour in the centre and awaited his libation.
Despite what Popham had said, a lengthy stay in Cape waters had its compensations, he had to admit. Who would have thought, in those impossibly remote days in the musty Guildford wig shop, that he would later find himself in a splendid gold-laced uniform in these exotic surroundings?
‘Thank you, Cuthbert,’ he said, accepting his whisky – a single malt, he was pleased to note.
Similar Books
