Huguenots

In the northern countryside of France, near Artois, lay the estate of Villiers-au-Bois. It was an old holding nestled in an expansive oak forest, with neat rows of vines that crept up the sun-dappled slopes. The land had been in Jean du Buis's family for three generations. By the year 1685, Jean was in his early forties, a stern but fair man, known for his wine, his sharp blue eyes, and his refusal to bow to the weight of the Catholic crown.

Jean was one of the last Protestant vintners in the region. Many of the old families had either converted or fled. But he had stayed, clinging to the land, raising cows for cheese, tending to his barrels of red and white, and managing a growing timber trade. His oak trees were old and strong, just like him. Twice a year, he carted seasoned planks and sealed wine barrels north to the Dutch-controlled port at Wielingen. The journeys were familiar, the roads known by heart. But by late 1685, even the roads had begun to whisper danger.

That October, everything changed. Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes. Within days, Protestant pastors were arrested. Churches shuttered. Royal dragoons arrived in the village, demanding loyalty to the Catholic faith. Jean's refusal was silent but unmistakable. When the soldiers turned up at Villiers-au-Bois, they didn't knock. They kicked in doors, overturned barrels, and shouted prayers as threats. His wife, Isabeau la Becque, was dragged by her hair before the village priest. Their son, Jan, only twelve, stood between her and the soldiers with a wooden pitchfork.

That night, under the dark canopy of his own forest, Jean made his decision. He kissed Isabeau's bruised forehead and swore he would see her again. The next morning, a trusted Dutch merchant smuggled her and Jan to Zeeland aboard a grain barge. From there, they found passage on a VOC vessel bound for the Cape of Good Hope. Jean remained behind to sell what little he could, bury the family Bible, and burn the rest.

In December, as the first frost silvered the vines, Jean left Villiers-au-Bois for the last time. He wore a woodcutter's cloak, his face smudged with ash, and carried a mule laden with cheese, wine, and planks—his cover for trade. The journey north was cold and dangerous. Catholic patrols roamed the highways. He slept in barns, followed old logging trails, and bribed a border guard with a wheel of Boulogne cheese wrapped in linen.

By mid-January, he reached the outskirts of Vlissingen. From the treeline, he saw the frozen masts of VOC ships in harbor. He dared not approach by day. That night, as sleet needled his shoulders, he approached the Dutch camp and gave the code word passed to him by the merchant who had helped his wife. A Calvinist quartermaster named Van Eck nodded once, and Jean was taken in.

He boarded the Oosterland on the 29th of January, 1688. It was a tall ship with creaking decks and the sour smell of salt and hope. The voyage was brutal. Storms pounded the sails. Men groaned with fever. Jean worked alongside the sailors, hauling ropes, patching leaks, and rationing the last of his wine. He dreamt of Isabeau's face, of Jan's defiant stance, of the oaks of Villiers-au-Bois swaying in the snow.

On the 25th of April, 1688, the Oosterland dropped anchor in Table Bay. The wind was warm, the light golden. Jean, thinner now and gray at the temples, stepped onto the soil of the Cape. He looked inland, toward the mountains. He had no land. No barrels. No trees. But he had made it.

At the foot of the Company's gardens, near the old fort, he found them—Isabeau in a plain linen dress, Jan was taller now, eyes still sharp. They embraced without a word. No one in the crowd understood what passed between them, but in that embrace was a forest, a vineyard, and a lifetime of defiance. Jean du Buis was no longer a wine farmer of Villiers-au-Bois. He was now a refugee. A survivor. A builder of something new.

And in the Cape, the oaks would grow again.