Conquest

Chapter 5

The sun beat down on the soldiers forming up on the castle parade-ground. Baird had been insistent that, for the march of occupation into Cape Town, full regimentals would be worn and every opportunity taken for display. ‘Find a pair of carriages,’ he growled at his aide. ‘I shall ride in the first, my commanders in the second.’

The Dutch governor’s open carriage was brought out, still emblazoned with the arms of the Batavian Republic on its side. Another arrived and the parade formed up, led by the full panoply of a massed pipe band of the Scottish Highland regiments and followed by one thousand soldiers.

Kydd boarded the second carriage with the senior military, and they set off to the heady squeal and drone of the pipes, the skitter and thump of drums ahead, and the regular measured tread of the soldiers behind. It felt so unreal for him, Thomas Kydd of Guildford, to be in Africa, in such circumstances of pomp and occasion, to be admired – or hated – by the crowds as though he were a potentate.

With Baird in regal solitude, the parade moved away, finding its rhythm as it crossed the vast parade-ground. Then the drum major signalled a left turn into a broad avenue leading to Cape Town proper.

Kydd sat alert: would the conquering army be greeted with violence or resignation? As they passed characterful white-painted residences and imposing stone buildings on the long, straight roads, people began to gather: not sullen masses or threatening crowds but curious African labourers, a huisvrouw with a shopping basket, couples in a style of dress not at all out of place for the England of twenty years ago, multitudes clearly just about their daily business.

They marched on. More arrived, standing on street corners, spellbound at the show. Here and there Kydd saw a Dutchman on his stoop in an easy-chair enjoying a long pipe and pointedly ignoring the invaders.

An immensely long span of oxen crossed ahead, causing the drum major to step short, but nowhere was there any sign of disorder or insurrection: in its normality there was almost a sense of anticlimax.

With the whirling of an ornate baton and flourish of drumsticks, the parade came to a halt in a square outside an imposing double-storeyed white building. Kydd supposed the dozen or more men standing there apprehensively were town worthies.

Baird descended from his carriage and approached them; words and extravagant bows were exchanged. As he returned to his carriage a detachment of redcoats marched forward purposefully and took an on-guard position at either side of the entrance.

The bands struck up and the parade moved on towards a long, spacious garden and stopped abreast a palatial mansion. Baird descended again. With numbers of interested onlookers gathering on the road to witness events, a party of servants headed by a nervous major-domo presented themselves. Baird nodded in acknowledgement, then turned and indicated that those in the second carriage should join him. ‘Government House,’ he grunted. ‘I rather think I should show appreciation.’

Flanked by his commanders, the new governor of Cape Town went to claim his residence. The cool of its rooms was very welcome and the glasses of chilled champagne even more so. Baird relaxed a little. ‘Well, gentlemen. It does seem we shall not be assailed by vengeful Dutchmen, which is a mercy. General Ferguson, I desire you shall give orders as will see your troops march off and be posted at the lesser places within the town until further orders.’

He drained his glass and beamed. ‘So, here we are. I am now the colonial governor. What shall be first?’

‘Sir, the defences against a landing by the French would—’

‘I rather think not. No, sir, I mean to rule well and wisely, and for this I will need an administration of talent and probity that’ll assist me in making decisions of such moment as you now raise. Yet even before that there are matters of confidence and discretion that I can only entrust to one on whom I must rely completely. In short, I’m in pressing need of a colonial secretary.’

‘Why, surely your aide would serve, would he not, sir?’

‘No military, sir. Recollect, these are folk who are joining the British Empire and may not be considered a species of conquered people. The complexion of our governance should be of a civil cast – as it is in England, the military subordinate to the body politic under the Crown.’

‘Where, then, will you find such a one? Here surely all men are in a military way of things?’

‘I’m in no doubt that, at hearing of the accession of this territory following our small feat of arms, Whitehall will quickly dispatch a parcel of government officials fit for colonial rule. It’s the weeks and months before then that I’m more concerned with, first impressions being so much of the essence.’

‘If I might make a suggestion . . .’ Kydd found himself saying.

‘Captain?’

‘I know one of particular suitability. He’s learned, worldly and desires no more than to study the ethnicals of his fellow creatures. And for this man I would pledge my honour that you may entirely trust him with your confidences.’

‘Really? Who is this fellow?’

‘Sir, my own confidential secretary, Nicholas Renzi.’

‘Ah. He knows discretion?’

‘His assistance to the Duc de Bouillon in a delicate matter has been much remarked by Mr Pitt himself.’

‘Extraordinary. Is he, who should say, ambitious? The post is only of a temporary nature and I should not want him to get airs above his station, sir.’

‘Renzi? Not at all, sir. I rather think he sets the world at a distance unless it suits him.’

‘Very well. Your own services now being concluded, you will wish to return to your ship. Do ask your Mr Renzi to wait upon me at his earliest convenience, would you?’

Kydd doffed his hat politely to L’Aurore’s quarterdeck and then her recent acting captain. ‘How goes she, Mr Gilbey?’ he asked, noting the smartness of the side-party and the spotless appearance of his vessel.

‘As an Irish thoroughbred, sir,’ he replied, with a trace of smugness.

‘L’Aurore made fine practice at her gunnery,’ Kydd acknowledged, loud enough to be heard by others. ‘As General Baird himself did allow.’

‘It went well for us, did it, sir?’ Gilbey asked, obviously consumed by curiosity as to what had gone on ashore.

‘His Majesty’s arms did prevail,’ Kydd said, and, feeling his words a little pompous, added, ‘You may say that Cape Town is now ours.’

Kydd was aware of the intent stillness of inquisitiveness around him, but all he wanted at that moment was the peace and familiarity of his cabin.

‘Um, sir – the gunroom would like t’ invite you to dinner b’ way of a welcome back,’ Gilbey ventured.

Kydd smothered a grin: the man’s motives were transparent. ‘Why, I’d be honoured, Mr Gilbey.’ The watch on deck would just have to wait until evening, which would see not only the officers in the know, but the stewards and others, who would be sure to relay what they’d heard to their shipmates.

Below, in his cabin, Renzi was waiting to welcome him. ‘Nicholas, old chap – so good to see you.’

‘My dear fellow – and in the like wise.’

Kydd tossed his hat aside and sprawled in his easy chair, twisting around to take in the view of the glittering sea and distant beaches. While Renzi brought up his own chair, Tysoe entered with a cool cordial.

‘Should you wish a rest before you tell me of your experiences . . .’

Kydd smiled. Renzi was only a little more subtle than Gilbey. He closed his eyes for a moment, the broad Atlantic swell inducing a pleasing regularity in the heave of the deck, the comfortable shipboard smells and occasional sea sounds balm to the soul.

‘Ah, yes. A near-run thing . . .’

He sketched out the events quickly, grateful that he’d been spared the horrors of a protracted siege and now quite certain that he could never make a soldier.

‘. . . and if you ask why did we triumph so easily, they bringing out the white flag so precipitate, I have no idea. Our good general is troubled, suspecting some kind o’ treachery, and is taking all precautions.’

‘Er, Africa. What’s it, um, like at all?’ Renzi said, as soon as he decently could. ‘How vexing it’s been for me, seeing this fabled continent and never yet setting foot in it.’

‘Yes, well, it’s devilish hot, there’s a mort of dust abroad, no jungle did I see nor less your hippo and lion. I suppose they’d be frightened off by our moil and numbers. But I can tell you, it’s a big country – no, immense.’

Renzi’s eyes shone but he asked casually, ‘So, I imagine we’re to step ashore shortly?’

‘I fancy not. We have the castle and the town, but there’s quantities of fortresses and armies at large in the country, which will occupy us for long before we may claim rest. I’ll wager our orders are this minute on their way to us, and what loobies we’d look if we have half our ship’s company on liberty, kicking up a bobs-a-dying!’

‘Of course. But I could be of assistance to you, perhaps, by dashing ashore and setting up arrangements with a victualler, seeing what passes here for marine stores, charts—’

‘No. Your services are too valuable for that trumpery.’

Renzi’s face fell.

‘Of course. And, in any case, going ashore’ll hold no interest – did you not say you’d put aside your ethnicals since the publisher frowned on ’em?’

‘That’s as may be,’ Renzi said, nettled. ‘I’ve not yet decided on my course. It would be a mortal waste to abandon the study, for I’m persuaded it does have its merits. And if this is so, it would be a cardinal sin to ignore an opportunity such as this to augment data. Why, here the economic response attendant on this insinuation of the Dutch culture into the land of the Hottentots would surely suggest—’

‘Just so, Nicholas, just so. Yet we’re to sail at a moment’s notice and I don’t see how – unless . . .’

‘Yes? Go on!’

‘But then it might not be to your taste, you being a scholar as is not concerned with trifles.’

‘What are you saying?’ Renzi said impatiently.

‘General Baird – who we must now account to be governor – has pressing need of a secretary. Not your usual pen-pushing kind but a learned cove who knows how to navigate a hard-going paper, easy with word-grinding as will be needed in conjuring colonial laws and a gentleman who can steer small about politicals. Who can—’

‘A colonial secretary? This is a post of significance, of standing in government. You can be sure Whitehall will dispatch such a one at the earliest.’

‘And what o’ the weeks and months before? I confide to you, Nicholas, he’s a mountain of work to fit out an administration, which he’ll be sore pressed to do without he finds a right hand. I would have thought it most agreeable for you, old trout, this forging of a new piece of empire when all about are different folk – white, black, Dutch and so forth . . .’

‘He’ll never take me. I’m but a poor—’

‘Nicholas, he asked for you by name. Said he’d be obliged should you wait upon him at your convenience . . .’

L’Aurore weighed anchor within a day, her orders brief and urgent. She was to sail south about the Cape of Good Hope as far as Mossel Bay, touching at forts and settlements along the way to inform them politely of recent events and invite their early co-operation.

And in the expected event of a successful conclusion, Kydd was to extend his voyage around the south of the continent then up to the Portuguese settlement of Lourenço Marques. There he was to let their old allies know that Cape Town was taken – but only as a pretext for assessing its suitability as a small naval base for operations against French predators operating against the India trade.

The first business, however, was his report of the ship-of-the-line lying at Simon’s Town. Was it nothing but a floating battery or could it still put to sea? Either way, it was a menace and had to be neutralised.

With a playful wind from the south-east, the frigate had put to sea without a confidential secretary for her captain. Kydd had wished his friend well of the position; he would miss his company but it was only a temporary loss of his services and he knew he would be a boon to Baird.

It took several boards to double the Cape and make False Bay, but after they had rounded an outlying shoal there, the old battleship was in the same mooring off the victualling and small repair establishment. Kydd could see no sign of sail bent on, no singling up to one cable – but a huge Batavian flag flew at the main and figures were moving purposefully about her deck.

L’Aurore shortened sail; they were deep into the bay with an onshore wind. If things did not turn out well there was no easy retreat.

She rounded to well out of range and let go a bower anchor. They were immediately met with the sight of a large fin lazily cutting through the water towards them: a great shark, thirty feet or more of deadly menace, just below the surface.

Shouts of loathing came from seamen along the deck as the monster disappeared under their keel. The sight struck a chill of horror in Kydd: some years before, in the Caribbean, sharks had attacked his sinking boat.

He fought down the memory and took in the Hollander. Would a ship-of-the-line haul down his flag to a light frigate? He would either strike his colours or make a fight of it; there was no other possibility.

‘Call away my barge, Mr Gilbey.’ As it was put in the water he went below to change into full dress uniform.

The boat, with a white flag prominent, pulled strongly towards the distant ship, but Kydd was conscious that it would be easy to antagonise the proud Dutch, an unwitting remark or perceived slight leading to resentment, gunfire and bloodshed. These were the descendants of the Dutchmen who had laid waste to the Medway in the century before.

As Kydd drew nearer, the ship’s old-fashioned build became clear but it was also evident that this was more like an 80-gun vessel, just as large as Villeneuve’s flagship at Trafalgar. Along the deck-line men were watching their approach. Surely they would not be there if their intention was to repel visitors.

He was hot. The glare of the sun glittered up from the sea, and beat down from the sky, making him itch and sweat.

As they neared the side-steps of the grand old ship, Kydd noted the wonderfully carved work at the rails, the side-galleries and sternwork. It was a standard of ornamentation that would never be seen again in this modern day of utility in a warship. A senior captain in tasselled finery on her quarterdeck bellowed, ‘Ahoj de boot!’

Standing to let his uniform be recognised, he hailed back. ‘Captain Kydd, His Britannic Majesty’s Frigate L’Aurore. We wish to come aboard!’

‘Niet – keep clear or we fire into you!’

‘I wish to discuss—’

‘There’s nothing to discuss. We’re at war, Captain. I open fire in one minute!’

‘I have news!’ Kydd shouted back importantly.

There was a pause. ‘One only to come aboard.’

Punctiliously the boat rounded the great stern where ‘Bato’ was etched in an arch of gold letters on the lower transom. Poulden glided to a stop one inch from the side-steps and Kydd stepped across, noting on the dark hull below the surface long streamers of weed swirling in the current. This ship was sailing nowhere.

Kydd broke into the stillness of the upper deck and, removing his hat as he appeared, bowed to Bato’s haughty commander. ‘Sir, I’m commanded by the governor of Cape Town to enquire your readiness to quit this ship and turn her over to us—’

‘This is your news? A rank impertinence, sir!’

‘Here are my orders,’ Kydd said, handing over a carefully worded document telling of the surrender and enjoining him peacefully to relieve outlying commanders, signed by Baird. A similar one in Dutch was signed by Baron Prophalow, lately commandant of the castle and town.

The man scanned them quickly, then snorted angrily. ‘Zottenklap! This talks of the castle commandant signing away a naval ship. He has no jurisdiction over the Batavian Navy and therefore this is worthless.’

‘It does state, sir, “the defences of Cape Town and all appurtenances thereto”—’

‘You mean to apply that kletspraat to the capitulation of a line-of-battle ship? When our army has suffered but a temporary reverse and its general places his trust in our loyalty? Do you take us for poltroons, sir?’ the captain spat, his colour rising.

‘Not at all, sir,’ Kydd said hastily. ‘It is rather that I deplore the violence and bloodshed that must result from a misunderstanding. Should I not make myself plain, then I have failed my commodore – who is in possession of a squadron of ships-of-the-line – and unfortunate consequences must surely follow.’

From the exchanged glances Kydd knew the implication was well taken. ‘Should you concur,’ he continued smoothly, ‘then, naturally, the honours of war shall o’ course be accorded you in respect to the long traditions of your gallant navy and—’

‘You presume too much, sir!’ the captain snarled. ‘Get off this ship – now!’

‘Sir, if you would—’

‘Now!’

Kydd drew himself up and bowed. ‘Then I am obliged to point out that it is my duty to convey your . . . views to my commodore and the matter will be taken out of my hands. Sir, I beg you will reconsider, if only for the sake of the brave men who must soon die.’

The expression was stony and he went on doggedly with the only card he had left to play. ‘I’ll take my leave, sir, but shall delay my return to the commodore for the space of one hour.’

He paused significantly, looking about the other officers on the quarterdeck, then turned quickly and left. There was a chance that, even given their proud history, he would relent under pressure from the crew, hearing of a squadron of feared Royal Navy battleships nearby.

The passage back gave Kydd time to think. It was a hollow threat he had made: Popham would not take kindly to a request to deal with a situation that should have been resolved diplomatically, that risked his valuable fleet assets with damage that could never be repaired in this distant outpost. In fact, it was most unlikely that he would quit his station directly off Cape Town at this critical time.

Should he leave Bato isolated for dealing with later? There were already soldiers heading south to Simon’s Town in a hazardous march to occupy the only pretence at naval facilities in the colony. If they were met by the murderous broadside of a ship-of-the-line . . .

Expectant faces met him in L’Aurore: was there a likelihood of prize money? They were the only ones present and rules on gun money and head money were very clear. Kydd, however, was in no mood to indulge them.

The dilemma was his alone. At the end of the hour, what should he do? Run back to Popham with his tail between his legs – or fight it out? Or wait until dark and perform a daring cutting-out operation? Against an alerted ship-of-the-line?

His thoughts raced, with no solution in sight. He couldn’t talk it over with Gilbey. A captain made his own decisions and this would be seen as a worrying weakness by his first lieutenant.

The deadline approached. Should he give them more time? How much?

Gilbey broke into his thoughts. ‘Some sort of signal, is that, sir?’

Kydd snatched the glass. ‘That’s their national Batavian flag,’ he said peevishly. ‘I’d desire you’ll take the trouble to recognise it in future.’

Something made him linger on the image. Did this mean they were about to open fire? The flag mounted up the main-mast halyards – but at the truck it rested for a moment, then slowly descended to half-mast where it remained. ‘Barge alongside this instant!’ The hoist could have only one meaning: capitulation. His heart leaped.

Kydd took the surrender in the huge old-fashioned great cabin, fighting down exultation. To his knowledge, not even at Trafalgar had a ship-of-the-line struck to a mere frigate. The terms agreed were straightforward enough: colours to be hauled down immediately and unconditionally, in return for the officers and crew to be allowed ashore to await their fate in the Simon’s Town establishment rather than endure confinement aboard. That was most convenient: only a token party from L’Aurore needed to take possession while the crew would be held in custody later by the approaching soldiers.

Kydd allowed the captain his sword in recognition of the fact that the capitulation was force majeure other than an act of war by L’Aurore. That it was the threat of an English battle-squadron in the offing remained unspoken.

Even as they returned to the upper deck, boats were being swung out and manned by Dutch seamen. The captain kept aloof, avoiding Kydd’s eye.

The seamen, dark-tanned and lithe, tumbled into the boats with their sea-bags as if desperate to be quit of the scene, and it wasn’t long before the captain went to the side, turned stiffly and, after a short bow to Kydd, looked up to where the Batavian flag still flew and removed his hat. After a few moments, and without a second glance, he swung over the ship’s side and was gone, leaving Kydd gloriously alone on the quarterdeck.

He savoured the moment, taking in the forlorn disorder about the decks and the odd smell of a Dutch ship, then strode to the side and signalled for his barge. It came alongside and he motioned the rest of the crew aboard. ‘Haul down the colours, Poulden,’ he ordered. His coxswain had an English ensign under his waistcoat and proceeded to bend it on, sending it soaring up.

‘A fine day’s work,’ Kydd pronounced, to the grinning men, ‘as will give you a dog-watch yarn none may beat.’ There were eight altogether. With none of the usual challenges of a new-captured ship – securing prisoners, frantic pumping to keep afloat and the rest – it would be enough.

L’Aurore was under orders to keep off until he returned, in case of a trick, but it didn’t matter for he’d simply leave a couple of hands and, on return, send back more. He smothered a sigh and sent his men to carry out a quick inspection – it would not do to have to rouse out later any drunken and resentful crew who’d remained onboard.

The afternoon sun beamed down, and while he waited, Kydd considered what to do next. To keep men aboard Bato in idleness while L’Aurore sailed away was not the best use of a frigate’s prime seamen. If he delayed for a day or so he could send to Cape Town for guard-duty soldiers, but his orders were for critical haste.

A muffled cry came up the main hatchway – and another. If it was a trap it made no sense: Kydd and his men had been outnumbered before – why wait until now to spring it? Kydd raced over to the hatchway as two of his men burst up from below, horror on their faces.

‘S-Sir! Ship’s afire, sir!’

Over the fore-hatch Kydd saw a shimmering that did not owe itself to noon-day heat. Somewhere below . . . ‘Follow me!’ he roared. The Dutch had fired the ship, but if they moved fast they had a chance. It was worth taking almost any risk – at stake was a ship-of-the-line. The guns alone were . . .

He raced down the fore-hatch. The air below was hot and acrid with resinous smoke from Stockholm tar, which was almost certainly what they had used to start the blaze. It was a sailor’s worst nightmare, but Kydd knew his men were with him. He flew down the steps to the next deck. Now smoke was swirling around him but there were no visible flames.

Was it even further below? The orlop? He made out a flickering orange glow in the gloom forward. Coughing, he plunged into it, tripping on rubbish strewn about the decks, and soon saw a hasty pile of carpenter’s stores – chippings, glue, resin – well alight.

‘The fire engine! Find it ’n’ rig it!’ he shouted hoarsely. Poulden beckoned a seaman and hurried aft. ‘The rest, grab a hammock to smother it – move y’rselves!’

He looked round wildly: there was a roll of old canvas to one side. ‘Get the other corner,’ he spluttered at a seaman, and they drew it clumsily at the fire. It died away for a moment but, choking, they had not managed to aim well and flames began licking out from under the material.

One seaman screamed, the whites of his eyes vivid in the gloom. He fell back, mesmerised. Kydd tried to reposition the canvas but now it was only fuelling the fire.

‘Sir – we found an engine but it was in pieces, like,’ Poulden shouted nervously from behind.

Flames eagerly took to the canvas flaring some old paint encrusted on it and Kydd felt real heat now. The fire engine was wrecked: what else was to hand? He shielded his eyes from the glare, looking about wildly. The cunning Dutch had started the fire low in the ship – a bucket brigade was useless this far down and even a whole crew would be hard put to stop it now.

Some of the braver souls unfurled hammocks and dragged them over the fire but it was hopeless and the flames rose even quicker, licking at the deckhead, spreading evilly. There was a dull whoomf as some tar barrels caught and then a general retreat through the choking smoke.

Suddenly there was a scream from the hatchway. ‘Save y’rselves, mates! There’s another fire forrard!’ On the upper-deck, flames had followed the lines of tar and leaped to the rigging.

There was an instant stampede; there came a point when a fire became a ravening beast let loose with death in its heart, and this no man could withstand.

It was time to leave the ship to her fiery doom. ‘Muster aft, all the hands!’ Kydd bellowed. A quick tally revealed two were missing. ‘Poulden,’ Kydd ordered.

The coxswain snatched at the sleeve of a sailor and they disappeared below. The others shuffled nervously, but Kydd was damned if he’d let them save themselves before the four returned.

The fire forward was spreading astonishingly quickly. The rigging was stiff with preservative tar and the flames shot up the foremast halyards voraciously, catching the varnish of spars and racing along tarry ropes between the masts to start fresh blazes.

One by one they gave way, swinging down in a shower of cinders. Yards robbed of their suspending gear jerked and swayed dangerously. Then sparks began dropping on Kydd and the others from the main-mast, whose rigging had caught.

‘Into the boat, then!’ he snapped. They needed no urging and, yanking it alongside, began scrambling in. Kydd stayed on deck, praying Poulden would soon appear as a rain of burning fragments drove them further aft.

Then Poulden’s smoke-blackened figure burst out of the after-hatchway with his mate, dragging a body with them. ‘Couldn’t get t’ Lofty,’ he said, his voice breaking. The other man looked around piteously and Kydd shied from the thought of what must have passed below.

‘We’re leaving now,’ he said brusquely, and they hurried to the side, Kydd pausing to snatch a line from a belaying pin and fashion a bowline on a bight to lower the corpse down. Anxious faces looked up, flinching at the burning fragments falling from aloft.

Without warning there was a loud, splintering crack above them. Before Kydd could look up, a weather-darkened spar swung down jerkily, trailing flaming ropes and brutally knocking them aside. It ended its careering rush through the centre of the boat, like a giant’s spear.

A shriek of agony from an unfortunate who’d been skewered ended in choking bubbles of his own blood. The cries of the trapped turned to frantic gurgling as the smashed boat filled. Frightened seamen scrabbled back up the side and joined the shocked group on deck, staring at the wreckage containing their dead shipmates settling low in the water.

‘What d’ we do now, sir?’ Poulden asked, ashen-faced. ‘No boat.’

Kydd had no quick answer. L’Aurore’s orders were not to approach Bato on any account, to guard against trickery, and simply await their return. The firing of the ship would have been spotted and the assumption made that it was Kydd’s action. But, worst of all, the boat was on the blind side and nothing would have been seen of their catastrophe. There would be no rescue.

The crackle of blazing timber from forward redoubled; in the light winds flames leaped vertically and now spread across the width of the ship, advancing aft in an unstoppable wall of fire. Kydd saw there was no longer any option – at any moment the fire would reach the ship’s magazines and they would be blown to kingdom come. ‘Into the water!’ he shouted, throwing aside his coat. ‘The magazines are ready to go!’

The seamen raced to the side but stopped dead as one shrieked, ‘Jus’ look at ’em!’ He pointed down, terrified. Lazily flicking past was the huge pale bulk of a shark. Another pallid blur cruised further out, accustomed to the ditching of ‘gash’ overside from Bato – galley scraps and the like.

‘Mr Kydd, sir?’ Poulden beseeched.

The fire – or the sharks? He was the captain.

Kydd snatched another glance over the side. At least three of the monsters were now in view. And the magazine could blow in the next second.

‘We go in!’ he ordered. ‘On m’ order, we jump together next to the boat as will frighten the buggers off. Soon as you’re in, pull yourselves into the wreck.’

It was a last and very desperate hope, but he didn’t allow the men time to think about it. ‘Ready, all? Then go!’ He plummeted into the sea. The others joined him in a confused crash of bodies. Gasping for breath, Kydd saw what was left of the boat, awash and at a crazy angle with the spar projecting, and clumsily struck out for it.

Almost immediately there was a burbling scream and frantic splashing. Twisting round, Kydd saw a giant shark fin cleaving the water towards them at shocking speed. Before his frozen mind could react, it was on them – but, incredibly, it passed them by. Kydd felt a glancing touch from the hard, muscular body.

With frantic desperation, he flailed for the boat, grasped the gunwale and was about to heave himself in when he realised why the sharks had left them alone. Attracted by the blood in the water, they were going for the trapped bodies in savage, battering charges.

More came to join in the frenzy of snapping and tearing: when that meat was gone they would turn on anything to sate their lust for flesh. They had seconds to live.

Against the brutish frenzy the distant hoarse cry was like a dream: ‘Raak niet in paniek Engelsen, we komen!’ Kydd jerked around. A Dutch longboat was pulling strongly out for them – they had seen what had happened and humanity had overcome the imperatives of war. They were saved.