Conquest

Chapter 2

They made landfall on Africa together, just south of the thirty-fourth parallel. This was close to the southern tip of the continent, and after a mutual wishing of good fortune, the two frigates parted as planned.

‘A penny for ’em, Nicholas,’ Kydd said, coming up behind his friend, who was gazing dreamily at the placid, slumbering coast ahead – that should, nevertheless, be accounted an outpost of the most stirring and wondrous place on earth.

‘I would they were a guinea in the asking, dear fellow,’ Renzi answered absently.

Kydd was long used to his friend’s occasional scholarly detachment from the world; he had been able to provide Renzi with the time and space aboard to devote to his magnum opus on societal imperatives as informed by his far voyaging. That the London publishers were far from receptive to the work must be so discouraging for him.

Renzi turned, his wistful expression almost comical. ‘Should ever I desire a perfect zoo of ethnical curiosities then Africa . . . The humble savage, he must learn not only how to secure his daily bread – or should it be taro or similar? – but to lie down in amity with the lion and crocodile that may be contemplating his devouring.’

They began pacing together companionably. ‘And these savages from the dark interior, what of their pride, their hopes, when encountering strangers from another world? What can they—’

‘Easily enough answered by those who know the Caribbean, my friend,’ Kydd interrupted cynically. ‘They’re taken up as slaves and need not fear for their prospects.’

‘None the less, I should take joy to see them at their native pleasures,’ Renzi said huffily.

‘Excepting for this you must step ashore, old fellow, and that will not be possible unless we first persuade the Dutch to part with their possession, which I’m tolerably certain they’ll resent.’

Renzi gave a half-smile.

Eight bells dinged from the belfry forward signifying the relief of the watch-on-deck. The men of the first dog-watch waited while Curzon went through hand-over with the off-going Bowden. The quartermaster then took his slate and the mate-of-the-watch went with his men to the bitts, ready for the inevitable sail-trimming.

After things had settled down, Kydd and Renzi resumed their pacing, a broad sunset developing astern while the line of land ahead turned dusky and mysterious.

‘Touching on the Dutch, Nicholas, don’t you think it perverse o’ them to fall in with the French? I’d not think Bonaparte a fit bedfellow for any.’

‘Faute de mieux, old trout. They are situated much too close to the revolutionary storm to think to remain neutral, while if they ally with Napoleon he will desist from seizing the country. That’s not to say they’re independent – not at all. They must suffer a foreign army of protection and immense interference in their affairs. But this they deem preferable.’

‘So as allies o’ the French it puts ’em as enemies to us. They fight like tigers let loose, and I’ll confide to you, Nicholas, I have my qualms about our enterprise.’ To Kydd, the fraught battle with the Dutch at Camperdown in 1797 had been on a par for bloody brutality with Trafalgar.

‘Just so. And considering the strategics I’ll not be surprised to hear they’ve reinforced their vital waypoint to the east at the Cape – or the French, distrusting them, have sent their own forces.’

They paced along, silent for a space. Then Kydd said quietly, ‘They’ve much to be proud on, Nicholas – a century or so ago they had a navy and trade to conjure with before we rudely gathered it all in from them. And now t’ be brought so low . . .’

‘It’s not the Dutch people we oppose, only their present government – the Batavian Republic as is controlled by Napoleon. I suspect the ordinary people have their views. Or not – recollect that the country is riven between the republicans, who applauded the French Revolution, and the Orangists, who want nothing more than a restoration of the monarchy. How deep does this go?’

Any further musing was cut short by the appearance of Midshipman Calloway, who had been dispatched by Lieutenant Gilbey to inform the captain that gun crews were closed up for drill and inspection.

This was Kydd’s invariable practice: the guns in the forward half of the gun-deck were manned on both sides and practice would then take place, starboard against larboard. The winners would have the satisfaction of looking on lazily while the losers were obliged to go through their motions once more, this time to ribald encouragement.

Later in the evening Kydd and Renzi relaxed in his cabin, admiring the last of the sunset. ‘A singular continent, Africa,’ Renzi said expansively. ‘Egypt and an ocean of desert in the north, the prehistoric darkness of equatorial forests in the centre and – and whatever we will find in the south. Elephants, giraffes and quantities of snakes, I’ve heard.’

Kydd grimaced. ‘Did you hear of Mungo Park’s explorations to Timbuktu at all? Sent by Sir Joseph Banks to go up some river and after two years came back with aught but his horse, a compass and a tale as would put any fo’c’sleman t’ the blush.’

‘Yes, I did read something of it,’ Renzi murmured, aware that the account of the adventure had been put out by John Murray, the publisher who had turned down his own tome. ‘And he was given another perilous exploration and is now vanished from the ken of civilisation.’

He put down his glass. ‘But what sights he must have seen! Giant waterfalls, grand mountains – wild beasts unknown to civilised man, tribes of pygmy savages—’

Kydd chuckled. ‘As if you would wish to get lost with the poor wight among all those cannibals and such.’ The look he received in response made the smile fade from his face.

As they closed with the coast, tensions increased. These were unknown waters to all aboard – Kydd had rounded the Cape several times but always at a respectful distance; the grand sea route to the Indies was a relatively narrow band of waters some dozen miles offshore to the south. If the French were at large they’d be there. With their numbers and force, they had nothing to fear from the British and everything to gain by straddling the shipping lanes.

This was where L’Aurore would venture in her sweep eastward, a week’s sail around against the wind and current, then a fast week or less back. They had the advantage that a large squadron would be easier to spot and their own rapid retreat would be put down to reasons other than scouting for an invading force.

The sailing master knocked softly at the great cabin and entered.

‘Ah, Mr Kendall – you’re not so familiar with African waters, I hear,’ Kydd said.

‘No, sir,’ he replied levelly, ‘but I’ve good enough charts ’n’ rutters. They did a fine piece o’ work afore in the surveying hereabouts.’

‘Good. Shall you now tell me your understanding of these parts?’

Kendall said gravely, ‘Why, sir, I c’n do that in one. This is not y’r northern seas, English Channel an’ similar. This here is all ruled b’ the oceans.’

He went on to explain. Much simpler than the complex weather patterns of the north, here the continent ended, extending into the Southern Ocean, a globe-encircling mass of water that endlessly marched on eastwards with mighty seas driven up by the virtually constant westerlies.

Where Europe was dominated by the vast land mass of Asia to the east, here there was only the empty expanse of the Indian Ocean stretching all the way to Australia, but subject to a seasonal wind reversal as regular as clockwork – the monsoons.

Therefore the Cape could rely on predictable wind patterns – a strong north-westerly with heavy rain in winter, and brisk, dry south-easterlies in summer. And now, of course, here in the southern hemisphere it was high summer. There was notorious variability at times, but the ruling pattern was there.

For the sailor there were further points of interest. To the east of the Cape a warm current swept down from the tropical north, the Agulhas, narrow and strong, which, with the powerful north-east monsoon, sped rich Indiamen rapidly homeward. Down the east coast it also kept the luxuriant rain-forests suitably wet and humid.

To the west of the Cape it was the opposite: from the south polar regions the cold Benguela current pressed northward along the coast. And once the Mediterranean pleasantness of the Cape had been passed, some of the most arid and desolate desert regions on earth resulted.

‘What of the ports – harbours o’ refuge and such?’ Kydd wanted to know.

‘Aye, well, it’s a God-forsaken place, no need for ’em, just a few settlements as can trade wi’ the natives.’

‘So there’s nowhere our French battle squadrons may lie to refit and store?’

‘No, sir,’ Kendall said positively. ‘We meet ’em at sea or not at all.’

They made rapid progress along southern Africa as it trended around and up the east coast. The days were balmy, a long, languorous swell doing nothing to slow them, the distant land always to larboard, blue-grey and mysterious.

Then their course began shaping north as they rounded Cape Agulhas. Kydd was now satisfied that there was no enemy fleet abroad and the two innocent neutrals he had stopped had confirmed this. It was time to return.

On this leg they would keep with the land, lookouts alert for betraying clusters of masts inshore.

Kydd consulted the charts once more. The notes in the pilot were insistent that mariners be not trapped into error: vessels from Europe sailing from the other direction should never feel tempted to put over the helm after rounding the Cape of Good Hope for the run up the east of Africa; if they did, they would find themselves in a vast cul-de-sac, False Bay, which, if the wind was in the south, they would never get out of.

Yet it seemed this directly south-facing bay had its uses as a welcome haven during the winter months when the north-westerlies hammered in on the open roadstead of Cape Town. The Dutch apparently maintained a small maritime establishment in the most sheltered part, Simon’s Town, to supply the ships waiting out the gales there. Kydd could see that such facilities would be attractive indeed to any commander with large ships and far from home. He decided to look in on it.

The chart showed False Bay as being in the shape of a lobster claw, the unattractively named Cape Hangklip on the east tip and the Cape of Good Hope to the west. On the open sea the wind was steadily in the south-south-east but he was too much the seaman to think that it would necessarily prevail within the bay.

They were coming up with Cape Hangklip: it was sometimes confused with the real Cape, out of sight on the other side, and unwary westbound ships thinking to turn up for the final run north would similarly find themselves embayed, hence the name – False Bay. Kydd, though, was noticing its steep, rearing form: there would be useful winds curling around in its lee, and prudence suggested they made use of this feature for a rapid exit should there be an enemy within.

The broad bay, enticing in the sunshine with its emerald-green sea, was near twenty miles deep and fifteen across. So close at last to the shores of Africa, L’Aurore’s decks were filled with interested spectators, but the brown and hard-green mountainous landscape kept its secrets.

Judging the wind, the frigate wore about and angled across towards the fabled Cape just as a hail came from the fore-top lookout: ‘Sail – I see eight or more, er – an’ one a ship-o’-the-line!’

Kydd leaped into the shrouds and mounted rapidly to the tops. This had to be a French squadron member undergoing repair or a Dutch sail-of-the-line. Either way the threat to the landing was grave – and if it had friends . . .

Aware of every eye on him he steadied his pocket telescope against a shroud until he had a good image. It was indeed a ship-of-the-line, perhaps a 74, more powerful by far than anything the English expedition possessed.

He looked again. It was of an older, more elaborate age; the ships at Camperdown had not been as elderly. Puzzlingly, it had its topmasts down and was moored bow and stern. Then he had it: this was a ship not intended for the sea; it was merely a floating battery guarding whatever amounted to the Dutch marine settlement at Simon’s Town. The others were harmless merchant ships, small fry, coastal vessels. He snapped the glass shut and descended. ‘A liner, it’s true, but a guardship only,’ he announced. At the relieved murmuring, he added sternly, ‘But who’s to say he hasn’t friends?’

Before them, the Cape of Good Hope was approaching, a legendary place of romance and antiquity that they would pass closely.

Renzi appeared next to Kydd, engrossed in the spectacle, gazing intensely at the narrow, precipitous finger of rock projecting into the deep green seas. ‘Conceive of it, my friend. The uttermost south of Africa! Should you lay foot on that pinnacle you may walk on due north for miles without count, never getting your feet wet until you arrive at the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. Or detour through the Holy Land and eventually you will stand at Calais observing the white cliffs of England itself, still dry-shod . . .’

‘I’m devastated to contradict you, old fellow, but this is far from the most southerly point, which being Cape Agulhas we recently passed, some thirty miles of latitude south. And the fine foreland you’re admiring is never our fabled Cape – you’ll find it the more humble point a mile on your left, past the beach.’

‘I see,’ said Renzi, with a sniff. ‘I haven’t had the sight of a chart this forenoon. However, I do note that our doughty forebears are right in one particular – the rounding of the Cape of Good Hope involves a decisive change of course from south to east, and thus, whatever its deficiencies of grandeur, it must truly be considered the hinge-point on the road to India.’

Honour thus satisfied, they stood together as L’Aurore duly turned her prow northward for the last two score miles up the peninsula.

So far they had done little to alarm the Dutch. English cruisers were no rare sight as they passed on their way to the Indian Ocean or homeward bound, and Kydd intended to keep it that way. His plan was to enter Table Bay, the expansive roadstead before Cape Town, as if on the prowl for prizes but in reality observing as much as he could of the shore defences.

It was out of the question to land scouts on the hostile shore – they would be instantly taken as strangers – but there was always the possibility of intercepting and questioning a fisherman or coastal trader. Time was pressing, however, and—

‘Good God!’ Curzon spluttered, pointing ahead. From around the next headland had suddenly appeared a ship, close-hauled under full sail, standing south, heading directly towards them.

Kydd hesitated in shocked surprise. L’Aurore was not at quarters but probably neither was the other – but then it shied away, falling off the wind to race back whence it had come.

This gave them a chance to see that it was of substantial size, well armed but somewhat smaller than they. Kydd’s mind raced. Their mission was reconnaissance, not to engage in battle; any damage to mast or spars could jeopardise their vital task to return and report. They would let it go.

‘Hold your course!’ he threw at the conn. This would give the other ship the opportunity to make the open sea and escape, but incomprehensibly it did not. The turn-away slowed and it came back to its original course, directly for them. It was going to fight.

Only a few hundred yards now separated them and L’Aurore’s guns were not yet cleared for action. And they could not buy time by seeking room to manoeuvre because the hard coastline was to one side and the stranger to seaward. ‘Get those men to the guns!’ he roared, in a fever of frustration.

Then the vessel was up with them – a cheerful hail in French and a wave came from its fo’c’sle. Kydd stared for a moment, then gave a grim smile. ‘He asks for news, believing we’re a Frenchman homeward bound from the Indies, our build so clearly theirs, and disbelieving an English warship this close in to the Cape.’

It put over its helm to wear about and run companionably along with them; at sea, to save wear and tear, a ship normally wore no colours and so far neither had hoisted them.

Suddenly a sharp cry rang out from among the sailors on its deck, then a hoarse bellow and the ship hastily sheered away. Something had spooked them to the true situation and now they were making off as fast as they could.

‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ Kydd murmured. It was precisely what was wanted – but then a thought struck. If he held back from engaging, it would signal that he was here for another purpose and the Dutch would immediately be on the alert.

He had no alternative. ‘We go after him,’ he growled.

It had to look convincing. The other vessel was most likely one of the corvette-sized privateers that were preying on the India trade and therefore heavily manned. Boarding was out of the question but a running gun duel was the last thing he wanted.

‘Brace up sharp, there!’ he roared down the deck. The privateer was angling out to sea as close to the wind as it could lie, but it would take a much finer-lined craft to outdo L’Aurore on a wind.

‘Gun crews closed up, sir,’ Gilbey reported, eyeing their chase with smug satisfaction.

‘Thank you,’ Kydd said coldly. If the man thought they were taking prizes he would disabuse him, but not just yet.

It would solve all problems if the privateer got clean away. But the distant captain had seen L’Aurore’s effortless fore-reaching and threw over his helm to go directly down-wind – back into the embrace of the craggy coastline. Kydd followed suit; in a twist of irony he was trying to lose the race but the other man was playing into his hands.

Short of deliberately slowing, which would be noticed, there was little he could do, for the privateer had allowed himself to be boxed in against the land, and with the down-slope afternoon winds coming in from near abeam, L’Aurore was at her best, at less than half a mile astern and closing.

Should he reluctantly board or stand off and cannonade it to a ruin? A prolonged roll of heavy gunfire would wake up everything for miles and Cape Town itself was only some twenty or so miles ahead. Damn and blast the useless swabs!

A quick check of the chart revealed a forbidding steep-to coast stretching into the distance. There was a good chance they would have to take the privateer on when it was forced seaward by the blunt promontory ahead, marked ‘Olifants Bos Point’. Some unknown hand had ominously inked in a graveyard cross and a date pointing to its offshore reef, Albatross Rocks.

It would soon be over: they were overhauling to seaward, and when the hapless vessel came out to round the breaking seas that marked the reef, they would be waiting with a broadside.

L’Aurore edged further seaward; without local knowledge, it would not do to come too near those wicked sub-sea fangs – but the privateer seemed not to care. Or was it that he intended to go between the reef and the point? It was odd: he would gain little by it for L’Aurore would simply take him on the other side and, unless he had faultless local knowledge, with the state of tide, inshore currents and the like, he was taking a terrible risk.

The gap closed – but as L’Aurore sheered clear of the reef the privateer insanely careered on under a full press of sail.

‘He’s mad, the bugger!’ shouted Gilbey, outraged at the foolishness of their rightful prize.

At full tilt the privateer drove on to the rocky plateau at the base of the cliff, rearing up and crashing down, the masts teetering before tumbling in a tangle of rigging until all motion ceased and it lay there, an utter wreck. He had destroyed his ship rather than let it fall into their hands.

Gilbey raved at the madness until Kydd silenced him curtly. This could not have acted out better: not a shot fired, the privateer destroyed, all in a desolate region where the survivors could be expected to take a long time to straggle out and raise the alarm.

Even as he watched, figures were tumbling out of the wreck and crowding on the stone-strewn shore. ‘Ease around, Mr Kendall, and we resume our course,’ he said, in grim satisfaction.

The next and last stage of the reconnaissance was going to be the hardest. An incursion into the very heart of the enemy’s territory: Table Bay itself.

Kydd’s charts were good: they showed how the settlement of Kaapstad – Cape Town – was on the lower slopes of a spectacular mountain within the sweep of a broad bay open to the north-west. Unusually, there was no harbour marked, simply a single jetty out from the long, sandy foreshore.

When he rounded Green Point to open into Table Bay, half of his anxieties would be settled. If there was an enemy battle squadron he would find them at anchor opposite the town, and in this near southerly he was confident L’Aurore would be able to make her escape seaward and sail to the rendezvous to bring the expedition word in time.

However, if there were no waiting battleships this was only the first act. Establishing how the Dutch would defend their possession was crucial. Kydd could think of no easy way to discover the defences to a landing other than to show his colours and flaunt them along the foreshore, provoking the batteries and gun positions to unmask. It would be dangerous but he was relying on the military’s unfamiliarity with gunnery ranges over sea and their probable lack of live practice.

He studied the chart again. There were batteries marked Chavonne, Amsterdam, Fort Knokke and others. And ominously, just below the town at the shoreline, a major fortification in the shape of the Castle of Good Hope. There was nothing for it but to go in.

‘All plain sail, Mr Kendall,’ he said evenly, to the master. ‘After we’ve cleared Green Point, if there’s no French at anchor we’ll follow along the six-fathom line as near as we dare.’ This would place them at a tempting half-mile range but with sufficient water under the keel.

‘Colours at main and mizzen, Mr Gilbey, and I’ll thank you to beat to quarters.’ The die was cast.

As they made the run, to their starboard the grey-brown slopes of the peninsula spine began to rear up massively, near vertical as a great mountain mass loomed, the rearward ramparts of Table Mountain. And the last feature before they turned the corner into Table Bay was the large cone-like peak called the Lion’s Head, the Lion’s Rump its smaller continuation. White-fringed rocks below were marked as North and South Lion’s Paw.

Atop the Rump there was a signal station, and the thin crack of a gun and wisp of smoke drew attention to the rapid flag hoist on the mast. They had been seen and reported. No doubt there was now the furious drumming and tan-tara of trumpets at the batteries and castle, which was what Kydd wanted – but would there also be the sudden appearance of Willaumez’s frigates?

Keyed up to expect anything, L’Aurore rounded the low flat of Green Point until the whole bay opened before them – with no dread sight of a massed squadron.

There were vessels at anchor: a large one close in, several of medium size and a huddle of smaller, all as near as they could get to the shore and its protection. As L’Aurore paused to take in the situation, a series of low thuds sounded from the shoreline, then smoke rose from a small fortified battery at the end of the point and was snatched away by a businesslike breeze.

Standing next to Kydd, Renzi dutifully noted its existence. ‘Twelves, do you think?’ he said matter-of-factly, as the balls slammed past and sent up vicious plumes nearby.

Close-hauled to the southerly as she was, Kydd knew L’Aurore must look a picture from the shore: a beautiful, lethal and utterly graceful man-o’-war arrogantly entering the bay. But he had to show purpose or their real mission would be betrayed. ‘Around and through the anchorage as if we mean to take our pick, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd said, as though it were an everyday affair to penetrate casually into the heart of an enemy port and out again.

Another battery took over, the concussions heavier and with more venom. ‘The Chavonne, I’d believe,’ Renzi said, with interest, counting the embrasures with gun-smoke issuing from them. Kydd spared a glance at the panorama of Cape Town opening up: a curiously neat town on the slopes, regularly spaced streets amid mainly whitewashed houses, dominated by the colossus that was Table Mountain.

He had seen illustrations but the reality was dramatic. Its perfectly flat summit stretched along for several miles. At three thousand feet high, with a near-vertical face, it gave an impression of grandeur only approached by what he’d seen at Gibraltar.

Tearing his gaze away, he took stock. There was the castle at the foreshore. It was unmistakable, with its curious low-built bastions and star-shaped design. It was joined by a wall to a fort further along, both completely dominating the only landing place, the jetty.

Another battery opened up as they approached the inner anchorage; by now there was continuous fire on the presumptuous intruder but so far with little effect. They were going to get away with it.

The wind’s direction meant that the anchored ships streamed to their cables, presenting a bows-on appearance and therefore unable to fire back. It was nonsense to think that it was possible to board and take one – so near to each other there would be reinforcements by boat on the way before they could bend on sail and put to sea.

He had to make an aggressive gesture – but there was a catch. He called over a master’s mate. ‘Mr Saxton, go down and tell Mr Bowden it’s my desire to fire on the largest, ahead there. Now – mark me well. He’s not to hit his target, do you hear? Not one shot to strike him.’

‘Sir?’ spluttered Saxton, in perplexity.

‘Do you not understand plain English, sir? I will give orders to fire and he is to miss. Or shall I have to instruct Lieutenant Bowden myself?’

He hid a smile at the wry thought that on a day of ironies this was possibly the biggest. He could not fire into the enemy because, if Baird’s enterprise was triumphant in the field, all of these would be British.

Plunging through the middle of the anchored vessels, Kydd gave the order. As if in too much of a hurry, L’Aurore fired off her broadside early, the savage gouts of shot-strike rising all about the large three-master. They seethed past the untouched ship and Kydd saw the ensign of the French Republic at the staff. It must be a transport, the French reinforcing the Dutch garrison.

Still more batteries were waiting for L’Aurore beyond, but had as little success. L’Aurore followed the line of the shore. All who could aboard had a telescope up, squinting through the hard midday glare at the alarm ashore.

There appeared to be a coast road following the long curve of the bay, and after the buildings petered out, the land grew flat and uninteresting, a uniform light ochre and dusty green. As far as Kydd could see in either direction, apart from the single jetty under eye from the castle, there were no port facilities to disembark soldiers and equipment, a grave drawback.

Robben Island, flat and barren on the charts, gave a natural conclusion to the bay and made a perfect blind for their rapid exit out to sea and the rendezvous.

What could he report? The most significant fact was that the fearsome battle groups of the French had not been sighted close by. Therefore they had a bracket of time of perhaps one or two days. The presence of the transport was a troubling unknown – how many troops had it brought? As for the defences, it was out of the question to repeat their surprise penetration. They had good information on the siting and calibre of defensive batteries but, on the other hand, clear evidence that without a port only a beach landing was open to them – and that in the face of hostile fire.

But those were considerations for others. ‘Course nor’-west after we round the island, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd said. Time was short.

General Baird rose to his feet. The muted conversations around the table in Diadem’s great cabin died away until there was perfect quiet. He did not speak at first, looking about gravely at the senior officers, an imposing group in their regimental and naval dress.

Kydd sat respectfully alert; he was not at the table with the commodore and brigadiers but with others in the outer ring.

‘Today I received my latest intelligence concerning the situation obtaining in the Cape,’ the general said quietly. ‘And it is that there are no signs of superior French forces in the vicinity. Had there been, be assured, I would have summarily cancelled the expedition and fallen back on St Helena.’

‘We go in,’ said Colonel Pack, with a savage smile, but he was pointedly ignored by Baird, his face lined with worry.

‘I shall not hide it from you – the decision is hard. Our forces are reduced. We have lost men at sea and the remainder must be accounted in weak condition from so long on shipboard. Moreover, we’ve now few horses left to us available to turn an attack by column.’

He drew in a deep breath. ‘Not only that, but most of our artillery is lost to shipwreck. If we make an assault – if we land successfully – then it will be but infantry on the field of battle against cavalry and guns. These are not odds most favouring those attempting a descent on a hostile shore.’

He paused, letting it sink in. Sea-glitter played prettily on the deckhead through the expanse of ornamented stern windows, moving slowly from side to side with the long sway of a South Atlantic swell.

‘But, yes, I have decided we will go forward with the landing, and with no further delay.’ A ripple of satisfaction went around the cabin.

‘From intelligence I have received so far we have a fair idea of what opposes us. First, there are the Dutch regulars. They garrison the castle and man the many batteries around the Cape. In addition to grenadiers and fusiliers, they maintain six companies of horse artillery deploying six-pounders together with foot artillery and dragoons.

‘As well as regulars, the Dutch command a battalion of Waldeckers, well-paid Westphalian and Hesse German mercenaries. Then there is the Java Foot Artillery, Malay slaves who have bought their freedom by enlisting. And also the Kaapsche Jägers – a line regiment of sharpshooters equipped with accurate rifles who will no doubt harry us as skirmishers on the flanks.

‘For cavalry they have what they term a “mounted commando” of light dragoons. These are irregulars but a formidable foe. Raised locally from the Boer country-folk, they fight for their land and their homes, and although individualists come on like tigers, it’s said their favoured method of charge is firing their carbines from horseback and other tricks.’

There were comradely chuckles of amusement at this evidence of rank indiscipline but Baird cut through it: ‘Be sure of it, the moment our force is sighted, a chain of signal cannon will send an alarm to the interior and this “burgher cavalry” will come swarming upon us.’

Kydd hadn’t any idea what a Boer was but there was no doubting Baird’s deadly seriousness. The general continued, ‘And, of course, there are the Pandours – and not to be despised, I’m persuaded. They are fine marksmen, locally raised men of colour. The Dutch call ’em the Hottentot Light Infantry and we shall meet at least a regiment of them in the field.’

An older colonel shifted in his seat. ‘Sir, we have heard nothing of French reinforcement. Captain Kydd reported a large transport at anchor and we can only infer that there’s—’

‘I know nothing of recent accessions to strength. At the least there are some hundreds, possibly a thousand of Bonaparte’s troops or marines. But we should not overlook the fact that they are not an organic part of the Dutch Army and, new arrived, may not fit well into their command structure. Nevertheless, we shall face them as we do the rest – as British soldiers!’

As stout murmurs of agreement went around the table, Honyman, captain of Leda, leaned across to Kydd and whispered, ‘Be damned to all this battlefield gabble – it’s getting ’em ashore I’m concerned with. Boats? Under fire? A night landing?’

Baird’s expression did not ease as he picked up his thread. ‘So, on to my plan. I’ve considered it well. With our forces as they are, we cannot contemplate a frontal assault on the town for I’ve no siege engines of any kind.

‘An attack overland from False Bay? I’ve been advised by the Navy’ – Popham nodded gravely – ‘that in view of the reigning winds in summer being in the south-east this also cannot be in contemplation.

‘Then a surprise landing behind the town, say at Camps Bay? There’s a pass just above at Kloofnek leading between the Lion’s Head and Table Mountain that could see us massing above for a descent on their unprotected rear. But again I’m cautioned by the Navy that, given the tight constraints of the landing place, insufficient men might disembark before the enemy retaliates.’

He paused for effect. ‘So! What is left to me is a massed landing by boat. At a place far enough from the fixed defences to allow us a chance to establish a foothold but not too far away that the enemy has time to prepare in depth.

‘Gentlemen, there is such a place, no more than fifteen, eighteen miles from the centre of Cape Town. Er, if you’d kindly assist me . . .’ Two officers took a corner each of the map and held it up for all to see.

‘Now, as you may observe, Table Mountain is at their backs. Where the ground levels to the north we have the castle. Beyond the castle is a fort, and past that – nothing. A ten-mile length of beach up to and past Robben Island here. Now, there is a coast road, a contemptible thing that will take an ox-wagon or four men abreast, not enough to send troops in haste.

‘Losperd’s Bay is here, at the end of the beach, past the island. And, gentlemen, this is where we go in.’

Military and naval heads craned forward together to peer at the map. ‘I’m supposing we can get our troops landed before the Dutch can reach us. We form up and accept battle, driving them back on the town.’

He looked back sharply at a muffled ‘Without guns, without cavalry . . .’ but continued grimly, ‘I’m only too well aware that an opposed landing may be bloody but I’m sending in the smaller navy ships to cannonade the landing place as the boats approach.’

Kydd knew full well who this would be, and the problems he and Leda must face. Were they to present their broadsides to the enemy, cutting across the path of the boats, or fire over their heads at fearful risk to them with rolling seas on the beam? And who would be there to help the soldiers and their kit disembark on an open beach? And what of the risk to the ship? Enemy guns lined up on solid ground could hardly miss, and a damaged ship out of control would be a wreck in a short time, wreaking chaos.

Baird’s iron gaze moved slowly around the table. Then he said, ‘I will not accept anything except that we are ready to invest the castle within a very short number of days. Else we stand exposed to any forces the enemy summons. I shall make my meaning clearer, gentlemen. We move on the Dutch tomorrow.’