UNDER TABLE MOUNTAIN a biographical novel by NIGEL PATTEN Copyright © 2011 All rights reserved—Nigel Patten No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, from the publisher. Strategic Book Group P.O. Box 333 Durham CT 06422 www.StrategicBookClub.com Design: Dedicated Business Solutions, Inc. (www.netdbs.com) ISBN 978-1-61897-161-6 The last decade of the 19th century were troubled years in South Africa. Tension between Britain and the two Boer republics, the Transvaal and the Orange Free State, increased until war became inevitable. These turbulent ten years saw many notable fi gures pass through Cape Town at various times and for various reasons, fi gures like Robert Baden-Powell, Rudyard Kipling, Jan Smuts or Cecil Rhodes. All of them were friends, guests or visitors at ‘Mon Desir’, the home of Sir Henry Juta, barrister and Speaker of the Cape House. This is the story of Louise Juta, the youngest of his four daughters, from her birth until she left South Africa in 1904 to go to school in England and never return. She spent the last years of her long life in Switzerland. I would drop in most days for an hour or two to play scrabble with Lady Luia Forbes, as she then was, and listen to her reminiscing. This is the result. Sir Henry Juta Lady Luia Forbes Louise Juta For Luia in fond memory of the many hours we spent together. CHAPTER . 1 “She’s low today, sir” A slim manicured hand strayed from the thick graying mustache down over the bearded jaw. The seated passenger nodded his head out of the window and looked expectantly across the fi rst class railway carriage at the only other occupant, who frowned slightly, as though he were not quite sure that he was the person being spoken to after all. He straightened a braided tassel on his smart red uniform jacket and raised his bushy eyebrows. “I beg your pardon, sir?” “The tablecloth, sir. She’s low today.” He glanced out of the window again. The resinous buds on the dark green spreading fi rs were opening and the shady acacia bushes in the impeccably lawned gardens abounded with cream-co- loured clusters of blossoms. Beyond the stately homes, Table Mountain raised its huge horizontal head above the wisps of blue misty cloud. The almost permanent perpendicular layer of stratus cloud moved only when high-level gusts of wind swept in from the ocean and disturbed it. Then Devil’s Peak emerged mysteriously from a swirling shroud, like some drowning giant heaving its heavy head above the maelstrom. Still puzzled, the army offi cer leaned forward. “I assume you are referring to the mountain, sir.” They both stared at the constantly shifting layers of cloud. The grave gentleman inclined his head and smiled. “Indeed, sir.” After forty years in Cape Province he had lost little of his Scottish accent. As a young man he had left his native Inverness to make his fortune and he had succeeded, not without a struggle at times. Twice he had found himself without a penny in his pocket, but his Gaelic stubbornness had 1 2 NIGEL PATTEN won in the end. He settled complacently in his plush corner seat. The steam engine puffed round the last long curve into Mowbray. The weather was oppressive. The onshore winds that often blew over the town and into False Bay had dropped and an uncustomary humidity hung above the peninsular. The bearded banker’s irritation mounted as he remembered his mission. It would probably be another false alarm and not the fi rst time the doctors had predicted that his daughter was about to deliver another child. And not the fi rst time they had been wrong either. A good Edinburgh medical student could have done better! He snorted scornfully and then, as if noticing how closely he resembled the steam engine up ahead, transformed the snort into a low cough behind his gloved hand. His mili- tary companion smiled. “You are from the Cape, sir?” “All but the birth, sir. Married, raised a family and estab- lished myself in business here.” He lost himself in reminis- cences: Scotland! In 1830, the year of his birth in Inverness, the fi rst steam railway in the north had just opened, Walter Scott was on his death bed somewhere in the Mediterranean and King George IV had passed on amid a wealth of social grievances. The little train ground to a squealing halt. Beyond the neat suburban station buildings, tranquil unpaved roads, mere sandy lanes under the fl owering tulip trees, wound lazily up the wooded fl anks of Table Mountain. Gabled roofs peeped through ancient rough-barked holm oaks. The occasional thatched cottage nestled under spreading dark-boughed pines, thick with clusters of bright shining brown cones. The mountain dominated everything, sloping slowly to the south and the rich compact vineyards of Constancia. A smartly-dressed station-master passed the carriage win- dow and paused to raise his braided cap to the occupants. He strode on, fl icking ostentatiously at the tails of his blue frock coat. The Scottish banker coughed again, this time on purpose. UNDER TABLE MOUNTAIN 3 “And you, sir, are not entirely unknown to me,” he said. He withdrew an elegant silver card case from within the am- ble folds of his dark blue coat and fl ipped it open. His travel- ling companion barely raised his eyebrows as he accepted the proffered card: “Murdoch Morrison Tait. Managing Di- rector. The Bank of Scotland, Addderley Street, Cape Town.” He leant forward stiffl y to confi rm his identity and seemed displeased that visibly the name meant nothing to the offi cer in the facing seat. He cleared his throat and smoothed his trim beard. “My son-in-law, Sir Henry Juta, has on several occasions spoken of your...” He searched for an appropriately inoffen- sive word. A smile fl ashed across the young offi cer’s sun- burnt face. “Exploits?” he suggested. Most of the events that had occurred in the previous June in Mashonaland had not yet reached the general public. These romantic pioneering ad- ventures had been tarnished by suggestions that Her Majes- ty’s government had tricked the native king, Lobengula, into authorizing a British force of some one thousand soldiers to cross his lands. Sir John Willoughby had commanded the rearguard of the column that crossed the Macloutsie River on June 27, 1890 with the thoughtless blessing of the High Commissioner, Major-General Methuen. His fl ippant com- mentary at the time was the talk of the town among those in the more privileged positions. “Well, gentlemen” Methuen had mused. “Your destination is a place called Siboutsi. I do not know if Siboutsi is a man or a mountain. Mr. Selous, I understand, is of the opinion that it is a man, but we will pass that by. You then proceed to Mount Hampden. Mr. Selous is of the opinion that Mount Hampden has been placed ten miles too far to the west. You had better correct that. On second thoughts, better not. You might then be placing it ten miles too far to the east. Good morning, gentlemen.” After six weeks of struggling through swampy impenetrable bush, the expeditionary force had 4 NIGEL PATTEN reached open grassland and built a fort, which they named Salisbury after the British Prime Minister. Sir John Willoughby leaned back into the soft cushioned seat. It was his turn to reminisce. After the dull routine of British barracks life, the Mashonaland adventure had been a refreshing interlude. The banker studied the soldier closely, slowly turning his high black silk hat with the tips of his fi ngers. “I’d not be surprised if you were on your way to Groote Schuur, sir,” he hazarded. Not a very diffi cult guess. Only two possible destinations offered themselves to a famous soldier farther along the railway line: the Cape Prime Min- ister’s residence at Rondebosch or the Naval Base at Simon- stown. Willoughby nodded assent and cast his eyes back to the window and the pine-clad cliffs that climbed precipi- tously behind the peaceful tree-lined lanes. Above a fi nal line of vegetation, Devil’s Peak appeared about to tumble down among the fashionable homes of Cape Town’s elite. To the south-west the level plateau of the Table itself had fi nally shrugged off the clinging clouds and rose majestically into the dark blue sky. Table Bay had fi rst been visited by Bartolomeu Dias in 1488 and later became a place of call for ships passing to India. Water and food could be obtained and mail left under marked ‘post offi ce’ stones, to be picked up by ships bound for Europe. The fi rst permanent white settlement was begun by Jan van Riebeeck. Requested to undertake the command of the initial Dutch settlement in the future South Africa, he landed three ships on 6 April 1652, fortifi ed the site as a way-station to supply ships bound for the East Indies. Van Riebeeck was Commander of the Cape until 1662, charged with building a fort, improving the natural anchorage at Ta- ble Bay, planting fruit and vegetable gardens and obtaining livestock from the indigenous Khoi people. By the end of the seventeenth century, the town had taken shape. The gar- dens and the brick castle, which replaced the fort in 1666, were surrounded by streets lined with warehouses, taverns UNDER TABLE MOUNTAIN 5 and company offi ces.