Conquest

Chapter 3

It was as if a sign had been given: no sooner had they returned to their ships than the wind veered from the usual south-easterly directly for their objective. It settled to a broad westerly during the night and increased to a respectable briskness.

In the dawn’s light the little armada saw the mountains of the Cape ahead and set their course for the climactic act of the drama. Within hours they had cast anchor in fifteen fathoms just to the north of the grey-green anonymity of Robben Island, two miles offshore from the landing place.

Kydd glanced over to the mainland and took in a low, flat coastline, a long beach ending in a twist of shoreline and a knot of dark rocks. Away in the distance was the grand sight of Table Mountain, at this angle picturesque and magnificent. A mile or so inland a blue-grey pair of hills rose abruptly from the flat plains, and in the far distance a light-grey craggy mountain range limned the horizon.

And not a sign of the enemy! Had they achieved the surprise they so much needed? The looming of an invasion fleet at their very doorstep must surely be causing dismay and alarm among the Dutch.

There was little time to ponder, however, for the flagship immediately summoned all commanders for a last conference before the assault was unleashed.

Kydd boarded Diadem, feeling the excitement and tension. On her quarterdeck a piper in kilt and bonnet stood at the ready.

In the great cabin Baird waited calmly for the meeting to come to order. Then he said briskly, ‘It seems we have our wish, gentlemen. I propose to dispense with preliminaries and proceed without delay.’

Fierce grins showed among the army officers: the endless weeks at sea had been a sore trial for them but now there would be action at last.

‘We begin embarking in the boats immediately. These will depart on my command for Losperd’s Bay. This is a clearly defined stretch of sand between two points of rock. To occupy the dunes immediately inland is our first objective. Commodore?’

Popham’s glance took in all the naval captains. ‘Offshore bombardment will be by Diadem’s thirty-two-pounders, firing over the heads of the boats going in. Leda and L’Aurore will go to two anchors as close to the shore as practical and pass springs for adjustment of aim. Their positioning will be to either side of Losperd’s Bay. A continuous fire will be maintained before and, as signalled, after the landing.’

‘Thank you,’ Baird said. ‘It will keep the enemy tolerably entertained, I believe. I shall remind you again – the rapid establishing of a foothold is critical to our success. We must move before the foe wakes to his situation.’

Kydd felt muffled thumps and scrapes through the deck, which he recognised as boats coming alongside in the brisk seas. The embarkation was beginning even as they sat.

‘Nevertheless, as a prudent commander I will make a last reconnaissance. Brigadier General Ferguson has claimed that honour for himself but begs he might be accompanied by a senior naval officer.’

Ferguson, a bewhiskered Highlander, red of face but with piercing and intelligent eyes, acknowledged the table and Popham nodded pleasantly. ‘It can be arranged. A ship’s pinnace under sail will be adequate to your purpose, which Captain Kydd, I’m sure, will be delighted to command.’

While L’Aurore’s pinnace was readied Kydd and Ferguson watched the embarkation. The same brisk westerly that had sped them to Diadem had produced a sizeable swell and white wave-crests, and the soldiers with their equipment were finding it difficult to get aboard.

Every boat was being pressed into service: big launches seating sixty soldiers, with twenty oarsmen, through to barges and cutters crowded up to the larger ships. The troops were assembled on deck by file, their kit beside them. As well as their muskets and bayonets, each man had to carry sixty rounds of ball cartridge, spare flints and haversack rations for three days.

They climbed into the bucking craft awkwardly, trying to keep in the centreline away from the seamen at the oars and looking at the hissing seas nervously. The boats backed off and joined the assembling armada.

L’Aurore’s pinnace came alongside, cutter-rigged with a mainsail boom and long bowsprit. Kydd took the tiller, with Stirk at the main-sheets and Poulden with Doud forward. Ferguson boarded, sensibly clad in a plain uniform and accompanied by two blank-faced soldiers.

‘Shove off,’ Kydd ordered, and the boat swung out of the lee of the 64, catching the westerly squarely. Under a single-reefed main they surged towards the shore on the backs of the combers.

‘A mite lively,’ the major general said peevishly, as the pinnace took a foaming crest over the gunwale, soaking his breeches. The boisterous seas grew steeper as they felt the shallowing seabed rise under them.

Kydd held his tongue. This was a lightly manned boat under fast sail – he feared how it would be for deeply laden craft under oars.

They approached the beach, Ferguson leaning forward in his eagerness to sight ashore. ‘Up ’n’ down, if you please,’ he rapped. Kydd chose his moment, then put down the tiller.

Broadside to the waves, the boat rolled wickedly, bringing cries of alarm from the soldiers, but Ferguson held on grimly as they wallowed and bucketed along. With the wind abeam, the boat was canted higher on the weather side, which served to keep the worst seas at bay, bobbing skyward as a massive swell drove beneath and then, with a precipitous lurch, dropping dizzily as the wave charged inshore.

They went about after half a mile and did a pass further up the coast. There was no gunfire or sudden movement, and Ferguson abruptly turned to Kydd. ‘Put these men on the land, sir.’

The two soldiers, hanging on for their lives, looked back in dismay and Kydd tried to smile encouragingly, despite his misgivings. ‘Poulden, ready the oars. I’ll bear up into the wind and at that instant brail the main, let fly fore-sheets and then out oars.’

Sail doused, it was nearly impossible to keep head to sea. The seething combers met the bow, flinging it skyward to crunch back at an awkward angle, which frantic work at the oars could only just meet. Kydd could see that even if he brought the boat to land through the surf they would never get off again, given this force of wind and sea.

‘Set the fores’l ’n’ jib!’ he roared, above the thunder of the waves. They clawed off, every man soaked and Doud frantically bailing over the side. ‘We can’t make it, sir!’ Kydd bawled, at the hunched-over figure of the general.

Ferguson looked up and met his eyes. If a well-found ship’s pinnace could not get through to the shore, then sending in heavily laden, crowded assault boats would risk catastrophe. ‘No. I’ve seen enough. We return.’

At the flagship further out, the seas gave little hint of their bull-rampaging power at the shoreline. ‘Sir, it’s my firm opinion they’ll never get on shore in this,’ Ferguson told Baird urgently, as the general came up to meet the returning party. ‘We must not attempt it.’

Baird looked at him as if he were demented. ‘Not proceed? Sir, by your own report the enemy has not reached the landing place. You’re proposing I suspend operations, recall the boats and lie in idleness while the enemy finds time to complete his deployment?’

To shoreward of Diadem the boats were assembling in concourse for the line of assault, bobbing and sliding on the swell and perilously full of soldiery; the embarking was near complete.

The tension on the quarterdeck was electric.

‘Sir! Might I . . . ?’ Kydd interposed, unsure of the proper form for contradicting a commander-in-chief.

‘Captain?’

‘I fear General Ferguson is right. These beaches are open to the full force of the Atlantic. Our seamen will try their best but with all those soldiers on board . . . That is to say, with their oars they’ll need . . .’ He trailed off at Baird’s thunderous expression.

‘You’re trying to say the Navy can’t find a way to land my men on an unopposed shore?’ Baird said, with biting savagery. ‘That a vital strategic move against the enemy, devised and planned by His Majesty’s War Council in Whitehall, is to be overborne by – by you, sir?’

Despite his vitriol, Kydd felt for the man – with all his detailed plans and hopes, he now had an impossible choice: to go ahead and risk disaster before his very eyes or wait for someone to tell him that he could go – and take responsibility when he was bloodily and decisively beaten on the beaches by a prepared enemy.

‘Er, may the commodore and I consult, sir?’ Kydd said evenly, seeing Popham arriving on the quarterdeck.

At Baird’s grunt, he motioned Popham aside. ‘Sir, the conditions are insupportable. This westerly has kicked up a long swell that’s pounding the sand. No boat can live in that surf. You must . . .’

The commodore’s brow creased and he paused before he replied. ‘I see, Mr Kydd. You will appreciate, however, that this cannot be received by the commander-in-chief with anything but resentment and more than a trifle of anxiety but I will speak with him.’

He approached the fuming general and took him by the arm. ‘David, I really do feel we must discuss this further. Shall we go below?’

A little later Popham returned alone. ‘Well, now. The general has a pretty dilemma but I flatter myself we have a naval plan that shall see him mollified.’

Kydd’s spirits rose. ‘Then how shall we get them ashore, sir?’ That was the nub, but the commodore probably had ideas such as pontoons on a line through the breakers or—

‘We don’t.’

‘Sir?’

‘Consider. We had notions of landing here because we had a chance of getting ’em ashore and established before the enemy had time to advance up the coast to contest the landing. Now he has the time. Therefore do you not think that our primary purpose is to dissuade him from such a course? To remain where he is and allow us to land here when the weather improves?’

Popham’s look of smug superiority irked Kydd, but he would play the game. This was the man who’d devised a radically new system of signals that had been adopted by the whole Navy and whom he’d witnessed devise an ingenious solution for delivering Fulton’s torpedoes when his submarine was seen as not practical.

‘Er, a feint as will draw his attention away?’

‘Umm?’

It was beginning to come. He remembered Baird’s reasoning behind his decision to land in this particular location. ‘Make a motion in his rear, say Camps Bay, as will persuade him we intend to cross, um, Kluffnick Pass—’

‘Kloofnek.’

‘– to fall on him from behind. In this way he’ll not want to be caught with his army straggling out in the open if there’s a chance we’ll strike at his centre.’

‘Very good. Pray continue.’

Of course! That was the solution. ‘So we are giving out that the Losperd’s Bay show with boats is merely by way of enticing him out – and the real landing is at Camps Bay.’

‘Bravo!’ Popham said. ‘Their field commander and governor, General Janssens, is a wily bird. He may or may not fall for it, but at the very least he’ll hesitate before committing his troops this far out from the town and castle.’

At a hurriedly reconvened council-of-war Baird wasted no time. ‘Gentlemen, I’ve given orders that the landing is not to proceed.’

A dismayed hubbub died away at his calm smile. ‘Instead we turn the delay to our advantage. I’m asking Commodore Popham to make a flourish at Camps Bay for the purpose of getting General Janssens to think again of where the landing will be taking place. No army commander would dare to be caught with his column of advance strung out and a landing in his rear.’

There were murmurs of appreciation and Popham avoided Kydd’s eye. ‘Nevertheless, I’m to take precautions, I believe. It’s my desire to set troops on the shores of Africa and to this end I’m dispatching General Beresford with the Twentieth Regiment of Dragoons to the closest sheltered harbour, which is Saldanha Bay in the north. Having established a presence there, he will march down to meet us at the landing or alternatively hold a position. Any questions?’

Kydd had none, but Saldanha Bay, while less than a day’s sail away for a ship, was a march of seventy miles across African wilderness for soldiers weakened by the voyage. If the weather stayed from the west and the main landing was impossible, on arrival they would be cut to pieces while he and the others looked on helplessly.

Any watcher from the dunes would have seen, in the last of the daylight, first a frigate and then other ships detach from the invasion fleet one by one and slip south, in full view, past the castle with the colours of the Batavian Republic and continuing by Cape Town itself, before rounding the point out of sight as a sunset blazed in from the sea. The conclusion would hopefully have been that the British were readying for a dawn assault – and the Dutch commander could congratulate himself for not falling for the gesture at Losperd’s Bay: his forces were still in place and fully capable of defending the town.

Kydd’s little fleet of a single frigate and harmless transports, however, were waiting for a sign. It came in the darkness at a little after two in the morning. Under easy sail well offshore, they felt the wind die to a whisper and then, an hour before dawn, it strengthened – from the south-west.

Signal lanthorns were hung in L’Aurore’s rigging and sail was set for the north. When day broke, they were back in the lee of Robben Island with the invading force and a very different prospect.

The seas were now subdued and the wind, backing yet further into its accustomed summer direction, was no longer a threat. The landing was on.

Brigadier General Ferguson returned from the beaches in fine spirits: he had landed his scouts, who had sighted lookouts but quickly determined that there were no enemy troops in strength lurking under cover behind the sand dunes.

Baird gave his orders for an embarkation. It was going to be a race against time: there could be no doubt now that the landing was taking place and the Dutch must be rushing troops to meet the threat. Only if they could get his own men ashore in time would they have a chance.

While soldiers boarded their boats once again, L’Aurore and Leda manoeuvred to take their bombardment positions each side of the sea-lane the boats would use, anchored both fore and aft and with the springs attached to the cables that would allow the whole ship to be oriented to lay down fire as requested.

At the head of the sea-lane, Diadem was ready with her big guns while the other two 64s lay defensively to seaward and the remainder ranged up and down the shoreline.

Before noon the stage was set and the signal was given. Galvanised into motion, the boats began the fearful passage to the beaches under a hot sun. But from their lofty height lookouts had spied a disturbing turn of events. There had been no time for the Dutch to march up to confront the landing but a commando of the burgher cavalry had been spotted: their horses had enabled them to be quickly on the scene and now they would be taking position in unknown numbers up and down the dunes to blaze fire into the helpless boats.

High in the tops of L’Aurore, sharp-eyed midshipmen relayed bearings to the gun-deck and her guns opened up in a slam of sound. A storm of iron tore into the dunes, sending up high gouts of sand and scattered clods all along the dune crests. When Leda joined in, the fire intensified into a continual bombardment that numbed the senses.

It was a hideous experience for the Dutch, but it gave heart to the seamen, straining in their heroic dash at the oars, and the soldiers sitting helplessly. War pennons fluttered bravely from some, the legendary colours to plant on the beach as their rallying point. From others, kilted pipers nobly played their defiance, and in all, the feathered bonnets and splash of scarlet of the famed regiments of Scotland.

When the boats reached the beach it would be another matter. The cannonade must lift and then they would be on their own. All would then turn on whether the enemy had fled or merely taken cover to rise again.

As they neared the shore Kydd ordered his guns silent. At first nothing stirred among the dunes. Then a tell-tale puff of white smoke rose, and another, until a regular fire was coming from up and down the beach. These were the heroes among the enemy who had not abandoned their post and were going to dispute the landing – but thankfully the ominous concussion of a field gun charged with grapeshot, which could quickly turn the landing into a bloodbath, was absent.

He watched as the many boats began to converge on the assault beach between the two rock ledges in a congested surge; if they could land together they stood a better chance but this was at the cost of fatal crowding – over to the left a boat slewed sideways as it took a rock. Under the impetus of the surf it rose and fell, capsizing instantly and throwing the heavily encumbered soldiers of the 93rd into the depths. Kydd craned to look, but of the forty-odd in the boat there were only three or four heads in the water, the rest choking out their last moments of life beneath the sparkling green sea.

The first boat grounded, soldiers clambering out awkwardly in their haste. Making the beach, an officer turned to gesture imperiously for his standard. Not far behind the green-feathered light infantry, stumbling at first in the soft sand, began moving out, some firing from the kneel and others pressing on up the beach.

They were taking casualties; men were dropping. An officer spun and fell – Kydd thought he recognised the fiery Pack – but troops were spilling ashore fast and the musket fire from the dunes began to slacken.

The experienced Highlanders of the 71st knew their business. Picked squads of agile light companies trotted up and down the beach and disappeared into the sand-hills. A sizeable company assembled in extended order and, muskets at the port, stormed inland.

More boats crowded ashore; now field equipment was being landed, portable howitzers, light field-pieces, even horses, as all hostile fire was silenced. Knots of men gathered at the standards waiting for orders, while an improvised signal mast let fly the hoist that declared the beachhead secure. Against all probability, the expedition had seized a foothold on the shores of Africa.

Somewhere out of sight beyond the fringing dunes, defensive lines were being set up, pickets told off and troops placed in readiness for the expected counter-attack. A determined strike could see them in serious trouble for their tenuous hold must urgently be translated to real strength – stores of all kinds, rations, ammunition, water in the keg: all had to be landed to make this possible.

Word came that a strong body of troops had been seen issuing from the castle, joined by others further along in what could only be the deploying of an army, but it was too late in the afternoon to fear action that day and the vital stores continued to flood ashore.

Aboard L’Aurore there was great satisfaction. They had done their part and the Army had done theirs. The British flag was well and truly planted ashore, and in the near future there would be a bloody battlefield where the Dutch would have to make their stand against the invaders.

The ship had performed creditably and would still have a part to play in support, but for now Kydd contented himself with reverting to single anchor, the cable buoyed for quick release. They were ready for any orders – but when they came they were completely unexpected: Kydd was to attach himself to the general’s staff as naval liaison.

He was to land with a lieutenant of signals set up to communicate with his ship, which, with the shallowest draught, had been chosen to act as close-in gunfire support, a fearsome mobile battery. The main coastal road ran close to the foreshore and it took little imagination to conceive of the havoc that would be inflicted by a broadside against columns of troops marching up in reinforcement. Although he would do his duty ashore, Kydd did not relish being out of his ship – the French squadrons could still make an appearance – but at least with L’Aurore so close he could be back aboard quickly.

‘Mr Bowden!’ he called.

‘Sir?’

‘Find yourself a likely midshipman and two hands – you’re going a-signalling in Africa!’ The details of how communications would be maintained he would leave as an exercise for the young man to present later.

What should a naval captain wear at a campaign headquarters on the field of battle? If the ancestral portraits he had seen were anything to go by, then only the most ornate full dress would do. Uneasily he remembered his experiences with the Army ashore. As a young lieutenant in Menorca, seconded to the land forces, he had returned on board his ship, victorious but hopelessly tattered and dusty, in stark contrast to the imposing Major General Paget, whose turn-out had always been impeccable.

‘Tysoe!’ He summoned his valet. ‘I’m to join the Army for a spell. Pray lay out some kit.’

The sun was sinking out to sea in glorious golds and reds when he boarded his barge and was taken ashore with a single sea-chest. The summer evening wafted alien scents to him as he stood on the beach waiting for his escort. Harsh chittering and hidden rustling among the dune grasses spoke of the mystery and danger of the great continent, but in a way he felt disappointed: this was nothing like the steaming jungle of his imagination.

‘Sah!’ A splendid-looking sergeant major saluted and a pair of orderlies hefted the chest. They climbed into the dunes and found the path. Off the beach the roar of the surf turned to a muffled boom, and away from the sea breeze, the air became close and hot. They passed chains of soldiers handing along stores, and burial parties, stripped to the waist, interring the dead where they had fallen.

Away in the distance a trumpet brayed, shouted orders faintly on the air. Kydd was conscious of the soldiers panting behind with his chest for it was heavy going in the soft sand. They left the dunes and were crossing a field of greens, sadly trampled and obviously belonging to the whitewashed farm with thatched roof ahead.

Kydd felt resentment that Tysoe had insisted on full undress uniform and sword. In his formal coat and large bicorne fashionably over his nose he was beginning to itch and sweat; on the open battlefield in the full heat of day it would be unendurable.

With much stamping of feet and crashing of muskets his presence at the farm was recognised and he was greeted by an affable major. It seemed he was now at Baird’s headquarters and was most welcome.

Inside, the comfortably worn flagstones and thick walls held a surprising cool and Baird came to greet him. ‘A fine show by the Navy!’ he grunted. ‘Their lordships shall certainly hear of my approbation of their conduct this day, Captain!’

Seeing the major and general-officer-commanding faultlessly attired in the ceremonials of a Highland regiment, Kydd had now to be grateful for Tysoe’s insistence in the matter of dress.

‘You’ll join us at supper?’

Kydd bowed politely and was shown into a cosy room, obviously the farmer’s pride, with its quaint Dutch furniture and tableware on display in the dresser racks. Now it was a senior officers’ mess, and round the table, jovial colonels and brigadiers sat and chatted expansively about the day’s events.

‘A dram wi’ ye!’ said the red-faced MacDonald, Lord of the Isles and colonel of the 24th Regiment of Foot, handing Kydd a glass. The golden sparkle was the best malt whisky and quickly set him aglow.

‘A right true drop!’

‘Och, as it’s a Speyside out o’ yon Duncan Knockdunder’s casks,’ MacDonald admitted smugly. There was movement in the dark outside – a massive bulk loomed against the window. MacDonald beckoned and the door opened.

An enormous figure in kilt and feathered bonnet stepped into the bright candlelight holding himself with intense pride. It was the pipe major of the 71st, his bagpipes at the ready, the light glittering on his elaborate accoutrements.

The conversation died and the piper looked at Baird, who glanced about him. ‘A Pibroch!’ came a cry. It met with instant acclamation and a grey-haired colonel called across, ‘“The Rout o’ Glenfruin”!’

Baird nodded his approval. In the confined space the squeal and drone of the pipes overwhelmed the senses but their barbaric splendour was deeply stirring. The martial wail set Kydd’s blood racing. Would the man be leading his clan into battle on the morrow? How could any not be moved to deeds of valour by such a sound?

Supper was plain. While common soldiers were out gathering wood for cooking fires to boil their salt beef to gnaw with their biscuits, their general was not about to insist on the formalities. Wine was conspicuous by its absence and there was no napery – but the talk was all of the coming day.

Three terrified Hottentot soldiers had been captured. They had readily shared all they knew: that they came from a large hidden encampment before the Riet Vlei, a marshy area to the south, and that General Janssens was at this moment with his army marching north at speed in the darkness to confront them the next day.

At one point a diffident lieutenant reported: a determined sweep by scouts had secured eight more horses and a picture of the enemy’s forward positions. It could only have been acquired the hard way – in the blackness of the night, stealthily creeping about in the African bush with all its terrors, keyed up for a sudden challenge from an outpost, then a stumbling flight back into the anonymous dark.

They had established that there was a light cavalry position at another farmhouse not far away beyond the ridge and other mounted vedettes in a line to the south. Further, fires had been observed on Blaauwberg, the massive bulk of blue-grey bluffs Kydd had seen from the sea. These would be lookouts in an impregnable situation that would report their every movement when battle was joined.

The foe was closing in, but there was no nervousness that Kydd could detect, just the same brotherly laughter and concern as in a naval wardroom, the precious feeling that was only to be found in a company whose lives the next day would be in each other’s hands.

‘Gentlemen! Be so good as to gather about me,’ Baird announced unexpectedly. An aide passed him a large map, which he smoothed on the table. Two stands of candles were brought near. Their light caught the officers from beneath as they crowded around, their grave expressions a sombre acceptance of what lay ahead.

‘My plans for the day.’ An expectant silence descended. ‘I won’t pretend we’re in a favourable position – far from it. No cavalry, just a few guns, and against us everything the Dutch care to bring to bear.’

He paused, then spoke in measured tones. ‘However, this is no new circumstance for Highlanders and I place my trust completely in their qualities of soldierly ardour and unflinching bravery.’

Grunts of appreciation came but there was no easing in the unblinking stares.

‘Tomorrow we shall be taking the initiative. I now know General Janssens – who is no dilettante – is forming up in line in the plain beyond Blaauwberg. He’s discovered we have no cavalry and is extending his force to dominate the road to Cape Town.

‘In his centre will be his guns – how many I know not, nor his numbers. What I do know is that the French are wholeheartedly with him, both the reinforcements we know of and apparently some hundreds from a privateer the Navy ran on the rocks.’

Kydd started guiltily, but there was no way he could have landed and pursued them in that hostile country.

‘Therefore this shall be an infantry battle, save for our few guns, and all objectives must be taken by storm and main force. I shall attack in column with two brigades, the First on the left, consisting of the Seventy-first, Seventy-second and Ninety-third regiments; the Second on the right, with the Twenty-fourth, Fifty-ninth and Eighty-third. When we are before the enemy, we shall deploy in line. Questions?’

Hazily, Kydd understood that they were advancing with a minimum front while the Dutch artillery was in action and when in musket range would open up to full width opposite the enemy.

‘We do have some guns, sir?’ came from one officer.

‘Six six-pounders and only two small howitzers. I’m at a loss to know how these can be termed a battering train if it comes to a siege. Nevertheless, I’ll point out, if I may, that in this, as in so much other, the Navy is coming to our aid. In the absence of horses, and to release soldiers for duty, they are landing a Sea Battalion whose duty it will be to man-haul the pieces into action and keep up a supply of cannon-balls and powder.’

It was the first Kydd had heard of it but he recognised Popham’s style, a vigorous response to a need. His own orders in respect of the roving battery that was L’Aurore had been properly acted upon. But would his part in the next day’s events be as a spectator or would he be fighting for his life as they were overrun by those Dutch, Malays, Hottentots and Waldeckers?

He sat quietly, listening as the details were laid out. In all his experience he’d never been in a formal clash-at-arms between armies – Acre didn’t count and he’d been away in a sideshow at the final defeat of Napoleon’s army in Egypt. Did the opposing armies perform a courtly salute, a displaying of colours in much the same way as men-o’-war did before opening fire? If nothing else, tomorrow would be an interesting day for a sailor.

The discussion concluded tidily, formal written orders were issued and suddenly there was no more to be done. A toast to the health of Colonel Pack, who had indeed taken a bullet on the landing beach, and a final one to His Majesty, and it was time to retire.

Kydd found it hard to sleep in the hot dimness, smelling the reek of army canvas preservative. The dead feel of the earth under his campaign cot instead of the gentle heave of his ship was unnatural and the strange night sounds of the African bush – any one of which could have been the enemy closing in – were disquieting.

Well before dawn the camp was astir. After watch-keeping at sea Kydd was untroubled by the hour – it was rather what it implied: they were readying themselves for battle, and the first moves would be theirs.

He could sense the tension. The men were taking their breakfast quietly, his own brought by a stolid redcoat, who waited while he finished and then left noiselessly. He stayed where he was until first light stole in and a distant trumpeter played an elaborate air to be taken up on all sides. Shouted commands mingled. He heard the rush of feet and the occasional whinny of a horse on the cool morning air – and then massed drummers began a thunderous tattoo. It was the call to arms.

He emerged from the tent to see the battalions forming up in a complex pattern, the nearer column being dressed off by sergeant majors as if on a parade-ground, the other more distant, marching in file and then line, miraculously achieving a stronger cohesion at every manoeuvre.

A bewildering number of men were urgently about their business, quite ignoring why a naval captain should be wandering about – and then he heard a sound so out of place but so familiar he shook his head in bemusement: the clean shrill of a boatswain’s pipe sounding the ‘Tail on fall’, the demand for seamen to take up a tackle line.

It was the Sea Battalion, hundreds of sailors standing loosely in lines ahead of the field pieces, looking about them gleefully. He walked over to talk with their lieutenant-in-charge but was quickly spotted and, to his embarrassment, a spontaneous cheer went up. He doffed his hat – all ships must have been stripped of gun crews and there they were, in all their individuality, so different from the uniformity of identical files of soldiers – and his heart warmed to them.

Many wore a leather harness, which hooked on to the drag-rope shackled to the guns, six-pounders but with narrow iron-shod wheels that would dig into the sandy topsoil, turning them into a ferocious dead lump to pull. Two howitzers were also there, needing to be dragged into battle; squat army pieces that threw explosive shells and therefore had to be heavily constructed, brutes to move.

The hundreds not at the traces would either be hauling the howitzers, or carrying iron shot and powder. In addition each man was fully armed: a brace of pistols, cutlass and even a boarding pike. If the tide of battle went against them and the guns needed defending, they would do the job. Kydd tried not to think of how they could stand and fight against a sabre-wielding charge by heavy cavalry.

Baird and his staff were at the head of the army. Distinctive on a white charger, the general was in the centre of a group of splendidly attired officers, all mounted and in animated conversation.

As Kydd approached, a breathless young ensign found him. ‘S-Sir! Your horse!’ Despite a critical shortage of mounts on the battlefield it would be unthinkable that Kydd, a senior officer, should be seen on foot like a common soldier.

He climbed aboard awkwardly, the odd-looking brown creature clearly one of those lately gathered locally. It jibbed and snorted at Kydd’s alien scent, and he strove to subdue it while setting off cautiously to join the group around Baird.

‘Captain Kydd, sir,’ a colonel said urbanely, gesturing impatiently for him to approach nearer.

‘Sir. I’ve given my orders—’

‘Then I’ll wish you well of the day, sir,’ Baird said, briefly looking up from a paper. ‘For Brigadier General Ferguson this minute,’ he snapped, passing the document to a waiting subaltern, who cantered off through the assembling columns.

Kydd held well back while the forming up took place; it seemed to take hours but he knew that any weakness or overlooked detail might cost lives, even the action. It must be worse for the waiting soldiers: Baird had a good reputation in India but would that translate here to reckless abandon, given the stakes?

Finally, it was time, and the order to advance in general was given. Taking the lead Baird walked his horse slowly forward, closely followed by his staff. As they passed, the head of the column’s screamed commands started the tramp of feet and the monotonous ker-thump of a drum. Apparently the pipers were reserving their wind for the future.

It was unnerving. The scrubby landscape was flat and sandy, absorbing sound, and stretched away in a gentle rise ahead. There was no sign of the enemy, no hostile threat, but while Kydd was conscious of the army behind, he felt very exposed in the little group at the front. On the other hand he was witness to the grand spectacle of an army on the march into battle, which he knew he would never forget.

They stepped slowly on, the thousands of men marching in patient unison, standards aloft, squadron colours with their bearers.

After an hour or so the sun was making itself felt. The pale soil reflected the brightness and was quickly absorbing heat, radiating it up uncomfortably. There was no keen horizontal sea breeze here, only a hot, breathy, vertical shimmering.

A horse and rider appeared above the skyline at the ridge ahead and stopped. Another rose some distance to the left. Baird reined in and signalled a halt. Screamed commands echoed back and the drums abruptly stopped. An eerie silence slowly spread. Then the general urged his horse forward. Was this some sort of grave martial rite that must be performed before the two armies grappled in mortal combat?

Kydd followed with the others. Baird seemed hardly to notice the two riders, acknowledging their smart salutes with a distracted wave and peering intently ahead. Then Kydd understood: these were their own scouts and consequently the general must be in sight of the enemy.

They drew up level and he found himself along the top of a gentle ridge. There, spread out over the plain below, the Dutch host waited for them. With a tightening of his stomach Kydd saw what seemed to be an uncountable number of tiny figures in their battalions, which stretched squarely across their route.

He tried to take in the wider scene. To the right was the dull-blue monolithic bulk of Blaauwberg, a smaller mountain a little further on. To his left was the same flat, sandy scrub that stretched for some miles inland before another blue mountain range, a larger formation beyond. But straight before them was the gentle slope that led across the baking plain to the Dutch Batavian lines, and in the far distance, the grand sight of Table Mountain.

Baird had a telescope up and was quartering the ground in front of him with the utmost concentration. Around him his officers waited with patience: this was nothing less than decisions for the final commitment – if anything were overlooked, it would be too late to remedy in the heat of battle.

‘Um, a stern sight, sir,’ Kydd said hesitantly to the officer nearest him, who had holstered his telescope after his own survey and now sat calmly.

‘Possibly,’ the man said, with a curious glance at Kydd.

‘Sir, I’d be most obliged should you give me an account of what faces us.’

‘Very well.’ He deliberated for a moment, then said, ‘Before you are the Batavian lines in extended order as they are not expecting our cavalry to outflank them. On each wing is an artillery detachment with more in the centre, which I’m diverted to observe seem to be served by a species of Malay.

‘To the left you’ll see a Waldeck Jäger battalion whose rifled barrels are much to be respected. The Dutch infantry are next towards the middle, where you’ll note more Waldecker mercenaries in support behind that forward troop of guns in the centre.

‘On the right is a strong showing of Hottentot infantry supported by additional Jägers and on the far right is where much of their cavalry are assembled.’

Kydd could now make out the differing uniforms and standards distinguishing parts of the array facing them but how all these could come together as a whole was beyond him. Then he saw in the exact centre a disciplined mass of blue – and the tricolour proudly aloft.

‘And the French,’ he said.

‘Ah, yes,’ the officer came back drolly.

Baird lowered his glass. ‘Well, they seem to be awaiting us, so I shan’t disappoint them.’

He let his glance rest on the scene for one last moment. ‘I shall attack in two columns as planned,’ he rapped. ‘The Second Brigade will follow the base of the Blaauwberg massif to storm the lesser mount – Kleinberg. The First Brigade will march to the front. I will have the howitzers in play from the start.’

A two-pronged attack at a prepared army – but occupying the high ground to the right, above the Dutch, was a strong move.

Baird leaned over and took a wooden contraption from an aide, which turned out to be an ingenious desk that fitted over his horse’s neck. He began scratching orders at great speed, handing them down impatiently. Each in turn was snatched by a dispatch rider, who put them in his sabretache and sped off in a wild thud of hoofs.

Their own cannon – such as they were – must now be brought forward. The howitzers with their explosive shells were small but could create dismay among the enemy ranks beyond their size. Kydd gave a grim smile at the irony that the first shots of the battle would be fired by sailors. The Sea Battalion had hauled their bronze beasts under the hot glare of the sun to the front of the British lines and were now deployed to either side of the centre. Knowing they were under the eye of the entire army, they were serving their guns with energy and skill.

The first shell landed not far from the front rank of the enemy, its orange flash and instant gout of white smoke followed by a distinct crump. The other howitzer followed suit, its shell causing a swirl in the opposing ranks.

To the right the pipers opened with a squeal and a drone, and the brigade stepped off in a compact column, as regular a march as ever to be seen on their home parade-ground. The howitzers fired again – but this time there was a reply from a troop of unseen guns located on the very high ground of Kleinberg they had intended as their own.

‘First Brigade, advance!’ Baird snapped. The sooner they closed with the enemy the better – if they could survive the guns. Behind, the pipers skirled into life and the column began to move up to crest the ridge. Passing on both sides of the general they marched towards the enemy.

The battle had begun.

MacDonald’s brigade, to the right, had increased their pace, knowing the vital necessity of silencing the guns on Kleinberg, and Kydd needed no telling that throwing infantry against guns would be a deathly affair.

More enemy guns opened up – from the centre, the focus of the attack by the First Brigade. These Highlanders must in consequence advance through the hell of cannon fire before ever getting within range of their own muskets.

It was a trial for Kydd to act the spectator while others went into danger, but it was his duty.

Now at the base of Blaauwberg the Second Brigade, still in close order against cavalry attack, would be an easy target for enemy guns but they marched on under the blazing sun.

Kydd tore his gaze away and watched the other column stolidly moving forward. Now the guns were telling: a ball reached the Highlanders, its passage marked by wheeling bodies and gaps in the ranks. Another – it couldn’t last!

A series of puffs showed on the flanks of Kleinberg. ‘Jägers,’ the officer watching with him said, with concern. A rifled weapon wielded with skill could always out-range a standard musket, even if the rate of fire was slower. These sharpshooters must have been set to defend the guns and were doing so: some lonely figures on the line of march lay sprawled and still.

‘Damn it – where’s those cannon?’ Baird demanded irascibly, twisting in his saddle.

At that moment the Sea Battalion came over the rise, the sailors near prostrate in the savage heat from the muscle-burning effort of heaving the iron brutes through the soft sand. Yet they hauled on valiantly, trying to keep with the fast-marching troops. One gun, two – four six-pounders were now in the field.

Matters were now critical. The guns on Kleinberg were easily reaching the advancing brigade and gaps were being torn in the close mass of men; at some point the column must halt and form line to face the main enemy – and then the cavalry massing on Kleinberg’s slopes could charge down on them.

Heroically, the exhausted seamen pressed on, and when the order was given for the column to halt and form line they man-hauled through to the front and, exposed as they were, manoeuvred their pieces around and set up to return fire.

Now the enemy would be suffering cannon fire and must make some response – but would the Dutch cavalry dare a charge across open ground?

The line was formed. Baird was going to make a frontal assault on the mass of the enemy, guns, cavalry and all, trusting in the spirit of the Highlanders to see it through to the end.

The pipers wailed into life and the line stepped forward at a measured pace, directly for the waiting Dutch. It was bravery of the highest order to keep discipline and formation while at any moment from the massed ranks opposite there would be a sudden crash of musketry, and death would sleet in to meet them.

The officers’ decisions made now would have consequences over so many: to fire when in range, then helplessly endure the enemy’s response while reloading, or accept the punishment of a first volley and vengefully take the time for a pitiless rejoinder?

Men were going down in numbers, the guns at the enemy centre firing grapeshot, and there on the flank, high up on Kleinberg, the cannon were taking victims. Everything now depended on the bravery of the Scots regiments up there in closing with the foe.

‘I say, that’s as damn well done as ever I’ve seen!’ The officer handed Kydd his glass and gestured at Kleinberg. At first it didn’t register – puffs of gunsmoke from invisible positions between the marching column and the guns. Was it yet another threat? Then he saw that the sharpshooter fire from Kleinberg was slackening, and well ahead of the advance he could just make out nearly invisible green-clad figures scrambling from one vantage-point to another.

‘The “light bobs”. Amazing fellows – specially trained at Shorncliffe with rifles to act as light infantry in any regiment. Work in pairs always, and can be relied on, out on their own. See now? I do believe they’ve got the Dutch rattled!’

The Kleinberg cannons were silent now: an attempt to slew them round to meet the marching 24th Regiment was stopped by the light bobs, who were systematically picking off the gun crews.

Trumpets sounded faintly from the 24th and the glitter of steel showed as bayonets were fixed. After a crashing volley, the redcoats broke into a mad charge directly at the cannons. It was too much for the Dutch who hitched up their guns and fled downhill, leaving their now exposed position to join the main army.

Baird’s tense expression cleared. ‘Ah! Those brave fellows have done fine work this day. Now it’s the turn of our other Highlanders.’

The line of kilted warriors tramped implacably straight ahead. Suddenly the entire front of the enemy erupted into musket-fire. Some of the Highlanders went down but the others marched on, the gaps filled immediately. At 250 yards a halt was called to bring their weapons to the present and open fire for the first time.

Smoke swirled over them as they reloaded, then the relentless advance continued. Kydd had seen nothing like it – the march into the very mouths of the enemy guns, the silken colours proudly floating above, the pipers in the forefront, their cold courage striking the fear of the devil into their opponents.

An officer was shot from his horse. He tumbled to the ground but gamely dragged himself to his feet and hoisted himself back into the saddle.

The lines were closing. It was now more than possible that the armies would meet in the shock of close combat.

A hundred yards – then fifty. Even to Kydd’s eyes there seemed to be an edgy turbulence in the opposing ranks at the approach of the ferocious Scots. The line stopped: a final crashing volley erupted and out of the smoke with a triumphant yell came the Highlanders in a wild charge. It was a fearsome and glorious sight: in the dust and smoke the gleam of steel as bayonets and broadswords clashed, man stood against man, strove and died – and in the chaos and noise the day was decided.

The Dutch centre gave way. The vaunted Waldeckers had fallen back, then turned and fled, and kilted troops punched into the very heart of the enemy. The cannon were overrun, the Javanese artillerymen slaughtered to a man. The French heroically attempting to close the line gave ground under the terrible onslaught and more Scots demons flooded through.

Their army now broken and isolated, there was little the Dutch could do except call a general retreat. Trumpets bayed, and while gallant bands still held their ground and fought, most took flight. It turned to a rout, fleeing Batavians throwing aside their equipment in their terror as they made off south.

Baird punched the air in elation. ‘That I had the cavalry to harry them now!’ He swore, then recollected himself and raised his telescope to scan the scene. Abruptly he lowered it and looked about him. ‘Ah, Captain Kydd,’ he called pleasantly. ‘If you would oblige me, sir?’

Kydd rode up to the beaming general.

‘The Dutch are in headlong retreat and my brave Highlanders are too fatigued to pursue them. I fancy they are heading for their camp at Riet Vlei to regroup and I wish to dissuade them by means of your excellent frigate. Shall you . . . ?’

‘Aye aye, sir,’ Kydd said promptly, raising his arm expectantly. ‘To be signalled,’ he told the waiting galloper, and handed him an order. The officer saluted, wheeled his horse around in the direction of Bowden at the shore signal pole and thudded off.

The arrangement was simple: on their joint diagrams the length of the shore was divided into lettered units of one hundred yards. The point specified, together with a number indicating the required distance inland, would be signalled to L’Aurore. It would be a matter of minutes only before the position would be under a cannonade far more intense than any seen on the battlefield that day. Riet Vlei, some miles to the south, would not be the refuge the Dutch expected it to be.

Baird walked his horse forwards, down the slight gradient over which the First Brigade had marched to glory. The smoke and dust had nearly dissipated and the pitiless glare picked out the trampled field, scattered pieces of kit, and hundreds of bodies lying at random over the arid land. Some still moved, giving out their life in the torture of thirst under the scorching sun; others were still and lifeless, fat black African flies gorging on their congealing blood. Scattered groups of men roamed over the battlefield – whether in plunder or mercy was not clear.

It turned Kydd’s stomach: at sea there was none of the dust, stink or flies; no casual acceptance of heroism and lonely suffering. It was another, cleaner existence where men fought and died but with their shipmates. They were not left to choke out their lives under a cruel sun without a soul to know of it.

They picked their way over the desolation, the general’s face now a mask. A dispatch rider cantered up with a message, which he read with evident satisfaction. ‘They’re on the run, gentlemen. I have it here – they’re attempting to regroup at Riet Vlei.’ He thought for a moment and grunted, ‘I’m told there’s a farm ahead. We’ll set up there until things become clearer.’

It turned out to be one of the pretty whitewashed farmhouses, a little larger than the others and with the infinite blessing of a small pond and spring. Dozens of soldiers drank there thirstily while hundreds more weary infantrymen just sat on the ground, hunched and dazed.

Inside, Baird welcomed his commanders. Dust-streaked, their breeches torn by thorny scrub and hard fighting, their features were lined and marked by their experience. ‘We’ll press on, shall we, sir?’ a grizzled colonel muttered. ‘My lads need a spell only, then they’ll—’

‘They’ll be sore tired. Issue ’em with rum and biscuit after they’ve had their fill of water and we’ll wait to see what the Navy can do to stir up Janssens’s camp with their cannon. He’s yet to receive his reinforcements from inland and I’ve a suspicion we’ll have a tight run of it when he does.’

Kydd knew Bowden would have shifted the signal post down the beach to keep with the tide of battle and would let him know anything of significance. In fact the bombardment would be well under way by now, just as the first of the fleeing army were streaming in. He fancied he could hear the faraway mutter and grumble of the guns of his ship on the still, fetid air.

There was desultory conversation. This farmhouse did not have the cool tiled floor of the other and it was hot and close. Kydd felt an urge to get outside, but not far away, near the waterhole, a field surgeon’s tent had been erected and carts of wounded were arriving, their cries piercing the air. He stayed where he was.

Time dragged. Then a thud of hoofs and a breathless dispatch rider appeared at the doorway. Baird looked up in sudden interest.

‘General, sir!’ the officer acknowledged, extracting a message, which he carried over to Kydd.

It was in Bowden’s young, bold hand. Hurried but precise, it detailed a landing – an unauthorised but successful assault by the Royal Marines under cover of L’Aurore’s bombardment not far from Riet Vlei. Popham must have stripped every ship in the fleet to find enough marines to send in but the bold initiative was a brilliant stroke.

It seemed they had brought a small gun with them, which they had set up atop the dunes and were firing directly into the encampment. A hurried defence had been improvised but had been beaten back by the marines. At the time of writing, his camp denied him, Janssens was attempting a rally further inland.

Baird met the news with barely concealed delight. ‘He’ll have to act boldly if he’s to preserve his army,’ he said gruffly, ‘but Janssens is a wily old bird. Let’s just see what happens.’

Barely an hour later another rider brought a message from scouts out to the south-east. There was no doubting it: the whole Dutch army was on the move. But not to strike back at the weary British – puzzlingly, they were marching at right angles away to the dry, wild country leading to the interior.

‘That will do,’ Baird said crisply. ‘We advance and occupy Riet Vlei. Gentlemen, we’ll sleep in beds tonight. I’m to set up headquarters where the Dutch commander did, I believe.’

The farm buildings at Riet Vlei were extensive and comfortable. In the glory of a setting sun, camp was established and foraging parties fanned out. As the evening drew in, a most extraordinary odour began to hang on the air. It was a space before Kydd could identify it: roast lamb! For the first time in many weeks they were to be granted fresh meat.

Later, replete, and grateful for the absent farmer’s taste in wines, the officers pondered the enemy’s next moves.

‘Then he’s running, sir?’

‘No, Colonel,’ Baird said thoughtfully. ‘But I fear we’ll hear more of Mr Janssens. No – he’s heading for the Tygerbergs no more than five miles or so off, a thousand feet high and steep. My wager is that he’s to throw up a redoubt there while he gathers strength.’

‘Ah – there we have our dilemma, do we not, sir?’ another interjected. ‘Should we move on Cape Town, he lies in our rear and we cannot face both ways.’

‘So I must go after him? There’ll be no easy storming of the Tygerbergs. And I conceive it would be a fine trap for us, should he be luring us to the reserves he’s concealing there.’

‘Then to invest and storm the castle?’

‘Without I have a siege train? Rather the opposite – recall that the majority of Dutch troops must be in the Castle of Good Hope and may sally against us at any time to reverse their fortunes.’

‘The Navy to lay ruin to it?’

Kydd came back immediately. ‘No! The fortifications are too strong and we’d be under fire from heavy guns the whole time. And to lie off in this westerly . . .’

After an awkward silence around the table Baird slowly and deliberately emptied his glass. ‘Then, gentlemen, I’m presented with a quandary. Quite apart from the French arriving at any time to relieve, where are the provisions and water that will supply my soldiers for a lengthy siege? The nearest friendly territory is to be reckoned in thousands of miles away, I’ll remind you.’

‘Er, may we know what you plan now, sir?’ one ventured.

At first Baird didn’t answer. Then his face closed and he said abruptly, ‘I see no alternative but to go against the castle – and we cannot delay.’