Conquest

Chapter 6

‘I suppose we must address you now as “Mr Colonial Secretary Renzi”, should we not?’ Baird harrumphed, but he was clearly taken with his first appointment as governor.

‘As you wish, Sir David.’ Renzi was secretly gratified at his elevation – the honours of the post had not turned his head but at Baird’s right hand he was above the petty manoeuvring yet at the centre of events, well placed to gather his ethnical curiosities.

‘There’ll be a mort of hard work for us both, you may be sure – but satisfying for all that.’

‘Sir.’

Baird paused, then looked at him keenly. ‘Forgive me, Renzi, but you do present as something of a man o’ mystery. What makes you tick, sort o’ thing? Wine, women – any vice as will be revealed to me in due course?’

‘To me, sir, the pleasures of the mind are the more perdurant and grateful to the senses. I’ve been these last years labouring over a study that seeks to relate ethnical character to economic response and . . . and it’s showing promise,’ he ended abruptly.

‘Ethnicals! Then, sir, you should go to India. There you’ll find every kind of God-forsaken creature and outlandish practice as would be meat for a thousand tomes!’ He guffawed, then sobered in reflection. ‘With cruelty and corruption in great palaces, side b’ side with the deepest sort o’ thinkers, who’d give pause to Pythagoras himself.’

‘As opportunity permits, of course,’ Renzi answered politely. ‘The Dutch as incomers to a tribal Africa should be a diverting enough ethnical spectacle.’

Baird’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have objection to the civilising of savages?’

‘Sir, the deed is done, as is the way of the world. My interest is in its outworking, the play of peoples and nature, threat and reply, never the sterile confrontations of politics.’

‘Then I declare I’ve a colonial secretary of the first water! You’ll find there’s the conquered Dutch, the Hottentots o’ various stripe, and who knows what we’ll see up-country? All these to keep content and govern for His Majesty, and I’ve a notion you’ll have a contribution to make.’

Baird sat back, contemplating. ‘So, we begin. You have experience of conjuring a government ex nihilo, from a vacuity as it were? No? Then neither have I.’

It was going to be a task of monumental proportions: the creation of a system of rule, its codifying, and then its declaration and promulgating on a subject people. From the detail of ceremonials to the rule of law. Allegiance, tax revenues, land-holding, defence of the realm, municipal water supply.

‘I conceive, as first step, a committee, a cabinet of advisers as will give their views when asked. Not too big, say . . . half a dozen? Hmm. Dasher Popham, of course, and a military type? Ferguson will do. We’ll have a doctor – public health and so forth. Munro would like the job, I’m sure – he’s our senior regimental surgeon.’

‘Could I suggest a gentleman of an accounting persuasion?’ Renzi offered quietly. ‘We’ll be facing problems of revenue and expense of quite another kind.’

‘Just so. Then I think it’s to be Tupley, our quartermaster general. Dry old stick, but knows his financials. There’ll be others, but this will do for a start, I believe. Well, now, I must see about finding you an office and assistants, Mr Secretary. Oh, and in the matter of a salary, I fear at this stage we must be cautious. Would, say, four hundred per annum satisfy at all?’

Incredibly, his income was now greater than Kydd’s. ‘There’s need of a residence of sorts,’ Renzi replied, greatly daring.

‘Why, most certainly. Grace ’n’ favour of the Crown, of course. Can’t have a secretary as won’t be found when needed.’

‘I’m most grateful, sir.’

‘Right! Then let’s whip in this kitchen cabinet and start our business.’

‘Gentlemen. I’m grateful to see you all here at such short notice. Time is of the essence, as you’ll understand.’

It was an informal gathering: Baird at one end of a table, pointedly in civilian dress, and Renzi at the other. The rest were in military uniforms.

‘You’ll be remarking this room.’ By its location it was certainly discreet, but although smallish it had rich hangings of Dutch origin. ‘I choose to make my headquarters and reside here in the castle rather than at Government House, from where all administration of a gubernatorial nature will be conducted.’ A ghost of a smile passed. ‘Apart from feeling a damn sight safer within these walls, I judge it to be a nod to Dutch sensibilities – recollect, their governor is still at large at the head of an army.’

He neatened the papers in front of him deliberately. ‘We all know each other, o’ course, no need for introductions. Except Mr Renzi here.’ There were curious looks as he added, ‘Who is to be acting colonial secretary.’

‘Renzi?’ Popham frowned. ‘Is he not some sort of clerk in one of my vessels?’

‘Confidential secretary to Captain Kydd, Dasher. You’ll probably not be aware he’s something in the philosophical line, corresponds with Count Rumford and others in London.’

‘A philosopher clerk? We’ll be tackling high problems as will be requiring more than a mort of discretion.’

‘I’ve placed my trust in Mr Renzi, old chap. I desire him to be privy to our discussions. Now we’ve pressing business – shall we get on with it?

‘The first.’ Baird waited until he had their attention. ‘I’ve just this morning discovered the true reason for their abrupt yielding of the town.’

He grinned mirthlessly. ‘Simple. Cape Town is within three weeks of capitulation by starvation.’

There was a stunned silence. ‘After a catastrophic failure of the harvest the total amount of grain in store does not exceed two days’ consumption, and external supply by the Batavians has been very effectively discouraged by fright of our navy.’

He broke through the murmurs of concern and added, ‘Which places us in a near impossible situation. Not only have we the entire population to feed but thousands of useless mouths – our prisoners-of-war, Dutch and French, who may not be suffered to go at liberty.’

He gave an expectant look across the room. ‘General Ferguson?’

‘Send out to the farms, seize the corn stocks,’ the old soldier growled. ‘It’s their skins we’re saving.’

‘Except that the grain regions are dominated by Janssens’s army, which has moved into the Stellenbosch. We can count on nothing from the country – is it expected we’ll be starved into quitting?’

‘God forbid. No, we must send out for supply.’

‘The nearest friendly settlements are St Helena and Madras. I shall certainly dispatch ships there for flour and rice but, gentlemen, these are weeks distant, are they not?’

‘Simon’s Town. Isn’t it some sort of victualling post?’ Dr Munro offered.

‘It is,’ Popham said, ‘but still lies in the hands of the enemy, guarded by a ship-of-the-line no less. I’m having a frigate call but am not sanguine about the outcome.’

There was a reflective quiet, then Baird said mildly, ‘Therefore it’s in my contemplation to release the fleet immediately to proceed to India, as was planned in the event of a successful outcome to our expedition.’

‘What – now?’ Popham was dismayed. ‘David, this requires I detach escorts in the face of a French retaliation. I cannot guarantee—’

‘Noted. It’s imperative, you’ll agree, either to increase our grain stocks or substantially reduce numbers of those on government corn. Failing the first, I’m obliged to accept the latter.’

Ferguson looked up bleakly. ‘Losing troops when there’s an army at large opposing us?’

‘I’m keeping back elements of the Seventy-fourth and Eighty-third as will take the field against Janssens for an early accounting.’

‘Ah.’

‘And the India fleet sails now.’

Popham frowned, but refrained from comment.

‘Very well. The next point is security. We have Cape Town. My best information suggests there are some twenty-eight forts and batteries in the outlying districts. My intent is to severally reduce these before moving on Janssens – and, General Ferguson, you will oblige me by presenting a plan for so doing.’

He glanced at Popham and smiled. ‘The Navy is our ever-present bulwark and a comfort to all to see anchored there in the Roads. All matters marine accordingly I’m grateful to leave with the distinguished commodore.’

He sighed, fiddling with a pencil. ‘We’re beset with worriments, gentlemen, but we will prevail. The Dutch made this a green and pleasant land and I won’t see it decline. The problem I would most ask you to reflect upon therefore is that of how best we are to reconcile its inhabitants to our rule. A sullen and rebellious population, ready to rise at little provocation, will be a sore trial.’

‘Um, er . . .’

‘Yes, Colonel Tupley?’

The quartermaster general, a precise individual, whose intensity of gaze was disconcerting, came back, ‘I’ve not heard anything yet, sir, about what shall be done concerning our trading position.’

‘Trading position?’ said Baird, blankly.

‘Indeed. We lost two-thirds of our specie when Britannia went down in the Brazils. I’m expected to pay the troops with just what cast of exchange? Implicit is that we must satisfy them and local suppliers by note of hand on the British Treasury, which in course will be discounted on the local market. And for which form of return? Goods in kind? Some barbarous foreign coin?’

‘An early decision will be made, Colonel.’ Before Tupley could reply, he announced briskly, ‘The meeting reconvenes tomorrow at nine sharp. Thank you for your attendance and please do give our problems your deepest thought – I need your ideas. Good day to you all.’

Renzi remained, and when the others had left, Baird slumped in his chair. ‘By heavens, just talking about what faces us brings on the blue devils,’ he said moodily.

‘I can’t help but observe that if the people wished to rise against us, I believe they would have done so by now,’ Renzi said. ‘I’m supposing the nature of this entire settlement is as a Dutch merchant-ship victualling stop and, in a small way, a trading port. If this can be restored, then it would go well with the merchantry.’

‘Umm. Now that’s something that I can do.’

‘Sir?’

‘Make it a free port! Open to all nations – that’ll please ’em. Where before they’d only what was left of the Batavian and French trade calling here, now they’ve all of the British Empire to welcome! I’ll make a proclamation to that effect immediately.’

‘It’ll be many months before it takes effect, the word needing so long to get out.’

Baird beamed. ‘Yes, but it’s the effect on the merchants I have an eye to. Gives ’em something to thank us for.’

Renzi thought for a moment, then added, ‘But then I observe there is a further course – one that links their self-interest with our desire to govern wisely.’

‘Oh? Do go on, Renzi. I’ve a fancy this will be worth hearing.’

‘It does cross my mind that the chief objective of our being here is to deny the French the strategic advantage of holding the Cape. That being so, we have no interest in its exploitation – the planting of colonies, the establishment of manufactories and the like. In fine, we have no real wish to disturb the present order.

‘However, conceive of the consternation, the dismay, at recent events in the hearts of these folk. The merchant and honest citizens will long have accommodated to the subtleties of opportunity and advancement in society afforded by their traditional and familiar system of law and culture. Now this is taken away and they’re confronted by a situation not of their choosing or control.

‘Are the English to be a brutal conqueror, exacting tribute, imposing our language, alien forms of law, taxation? Are they to be dispossessed by arbitrary laws of their ancient lands, losing their ancestral homes, their investments against old age?

‘Everything is set on its head and they will listen to any who promises to restore the old ways. Sir – I have a proposition. Should we do as the Romans did, then we will be at considerable advantage.’

‘Pray continue . . . Mr Secretary.’

‘We keep the structure of native rule in place, complete with laws and customs, without interference, merely ensuring the ruler is complaisant. Do you declare by proclamation that this be so, that none may fear loss or seizure, that we English do hold ourselves under the same laws and that—’

‘A radical conceit, sir!’

‘– providing always that such is not in conflict with any English common law. Sir, the Dutch system is derived from the Roman tradition, as ours is. I’ll wager there are paltry differences only, and the customs are harmless. For a little given, much is gained.’

‘I’ll reserve opinion on the Romans as an exemplar, but your proposition is interesting. Damn, it, very interesting . . . It means they’ll have little to complain of, they ruling themselves, and if they wax fat on the trade we put their way, most will frown on any who seek to trouble it.’

Renzi said nothing, giving space for Baird to explore the thought.

‘Hmm. Laws ’n’ customs – I suppose this includes their currency? Then here we have a solution to our lack of specie. Let ’em keep using their old money, whatever that is. Pay our soldiers in suchlike, and the market can’t refuse our coin, it being theirs . . . Yes, it’ll raise eyebrows among my colonels but we have possibilities.’

His forehead creased in concentration. ‘Ha! Another fine thought – we treat with their old town council or whatever with a view to adopting it in its glorious entirety, lord mayor and all! This way we’ll have no need to face the tedium of forming our own with all its devising of pettifogging ordinances and drain to the Treasury. Yes, by Jove!’

He reflected for a moment, then slapped his hand down. ‘We’ll do it! Nothing to say I, as governor, can’t make it so! Um, first thing is to get it down in a form o’ words. Then we trot it by the former Dutch nabob in charge, who’ll see it in his interest to be restored to power, and we’ll then get it cast into the local lingo.’

‘Do we have any familiar with the law, sir?’

‘Umm – no. And it has to be safely in the legal cant.’ Baird was downcast for only a moment, then brightened. ‘No – but the Dutch have. This nabob making common cause with us you can be certain will leave nothing to chance in this way. Splendid! I’ll trouble you to draw up our draft form o’ words while I send out for the chap and we’ll have something to show for a good afternoon’s work.’

Kydd was only too aware that for sailors a death at sea, when not in the presence of the enemy, must always be attended with the proper forms of respect – a muster at the ship’s side, prayers and then a flag-draped body consigned to the deep.

For the three who did not return there could not be all of this. But regular service at sea saw many a fall from the yard at night, a rogue sea sweeping the fore-deck and other hazards taking life and leaving nothing, and there were long-hallowed traditions of the captain gathering the men, ensuring the right words were said. As was the way of the Service, L’Aurore put to sea immediately afterwards, duty bound.

They sailed away from the sunset, the seamen at their mess-decks muted over their evening grog. Later there would be the traditional ceremony about the foremast as the dead sailors’ kit and treasured possessions were auctioned to their messmates, the proceeds always many times the actual value of the items, to go eventually to their loved ones – but it would be many months or even years before they would hear of their loss.

Kydd missed Renzi. Through the years they had contrived to stay together and now he was no longer there, so Kydd would dine alone. Most captains did, of course, unless invited by the gunroom, or at breakfast with the offgoing officer-of-the-watch and a brace of tongue-tied midshipmen, but Kydd had grown used to Renzi’s company.

Would Renzi soon tire of acting the scribe for a precarious land-bound bureaucracy? Like himself, Kydd knew his friend relished the broad horizons and freedoms of the sea, and perhaps the fetters of unchanging routine would become irksome.

The long but slight southerly swell gave a pleasing rhythm to L’Aurore’s easy leg seaward; in the morning she would close with the land to resume her easterly course, the next fortress marked as Onrusberge. And in the meantime he would try to let sleep soften the images of the day.

A rose-tinted dawn saw the frigate raise the long rocky spit at Hangklip; their position secure, a couple of tacks into the south-south-easterly, and they were approaching an immense stretch of bright sand-hills as far as the eye could see, at its northern end a small settlement below rumpled umber heights that stretched away inland.

‘To quarters, if you please,’ Kydd ordered. Their chart was a dozen years old, and the modest battery on the hill above might well have been strengthened since then to give them an unpleasant surprise.

Located well into the hook at the end of the bay, Onrusberge was on a dead lee shore and L’Aurore prudently came to well clear, conveniently out of range of any guns. Taking the officer-of-the-watch’s telescope while his barge was being prepared, Kydd carefully inspected the land. Set many miles to the south-east and separated by formidable country, there was the prospect that the news of Cape Town’s surrender had not reached it, if the terse notations on the chart were to be believed.

Their appearance had created something of a stir, for there was noticeable activity ashore. He swept the heights, searching for the fort. There was none evident, only a low jumble of square grey structures. Could this mean that it was in some way concealed?

Under sail, his barge made for the distant cluster of houses, surfing before the swell with bellying sails, a large white flag high and prominent. He had a minimal boat’s crew and was unarmed, and noted warily a gathering of figures along the shore.

Kydd directed the boat towards its centre. A small file of soldiers appeared and began to form up. When they were closer, he could see that they were at the head of a projecting flat tongue of rock, which had a rickety jetty perched along it.

The swell urged them inshore with dismaying rapidity. Kydd glanced at Poulden at the tiller; unusually, his calm features were set in a frown. It was a delicate judgement in seamanship: wind abaft, the swell translating to white-capped seas driven ever higher as they surged in, and the small jetty with barely a boat’s length to come up to. In this craft it would be lunacy to make a direct approach, the seas only too ready to smash against its pretty but squared-off transom before Kydd could make it to dry land.

He said nothing, letting Poulden make his decision. A hundred yards off, both sails came down at the run and oars thumped into their thole pins. For a moment there was an awkward slewing as the boat lost way before they could find their rhythm, but then Poulden saw his chance and brought the boat round, head to seas.

It was masterly: now the barge was keeping position against the onrushing combers, edging across until it was within oar’s length of the jetty.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Poulden said, trying to work out what was happening ashore.

Any but a lubberly crew would see the need for a rope thrown to bring them in the last few yards but the reception party just stood like statues. ‘I’ll go for’ard,’ Kydd said, finding his way down to the bows, and when Poulden brought them in at an angle, he would be ready for that split-second moment when bow touched jetty.

He saw his chance: he would seize one of the vertical top timbers of the jetty and pull himself over. The bow approached, touched, and he sprang for the upright, heaving up with all his strength. The barge fell away immediately – but suddenly there was a rending crack of old timber and he dropped to his waist in the swash of the next wave.

Energised by anger, he performed a topman’s trick, rotating to let his feet walk up as he hauled in on the sagging timber until he could twist up and on to the ramshackle decking, in the process losing his gold-laced cocked hat to the waves.

He straightened, trying to fix a smile as he faced the five rather quaint-looking soldiers and their elderly officer, who had wisely not ventured out on the old jetty. A moment of mutual incomprehension passed, and then a quavering but jaunty air arose from the fife-player.

Sloshing forward, Kydd approached the little group, the smile still fixed. The officer drew his sword and energetically saluted him, his gaze carefully averted. Without a hat to raise and feeling more than a little mutinous, Kydd bowed shortly.

Knowing that the Batavians and French were allies he declared importantly, ‘Je transmets les salutations de sa majesté le roi George, et les frères néerlandais, félicitations—’

‘Do you come from the Grand Admiraal Nelson, sir?’ the officer asked abruptly, in English.

Nettled, Kydd ignored the question. ‘I am here to treat with your fort commandant on an important matter. Be so good as to take me to him.’ His wet clothes clung annoyingly.

‘I am he,’ the officer admitted, the sword-point drooping a little. ‘Ritmeester Francken. And these are my men.’

‘Ah. Captain Thomas Kydd, my ship L’Aurore of thirty-two guns,’ he said, indicating the frigate nobly at anchor out in the bay. ‘May we go to your fort to discuss a delicate matter, sir?’

‘We must surrender to you, hein?’ Francken asked politely.

Kydd blinked, then collected himself. ‘Er, shall we go to the fort?’

‘Het spijt – and it’s not fit for such as you, sir,’ Francken said admiringly.

Kydd took his arm and propelled him away from the gaping onlookers. ‘You’ve heard of Blaauwberg?’

‘Sadly, yes. The fishermen. Sir, are you sure you’re not sent by Admiraal Nelson at all?’

It was becoming clear. ‘He has other business and asks me to treat with the gallant defenders directly. Sir, do you—’

‘Certainly. But with the conditions.’

‘Sir, you lie helpless under our guns! And you talk of conditions?’

Francken drew himself up. ‘I must insist,’ he said stiffly. ‘Sir – we are a nation of honour! I cannot allow—’

‘Very well. What are these conditions? Be aware that I cannot speak for my commander-in-chief should these terms be adverse to His Majesty’s arms.’

Stubbornly, the officer tried to explain. Eventually Kydd understood. He excused himself and went once more to the jetty. ‘One boatkeeper,’ he bellowed to his barge laying off. ‘The rest to step ashore.’ A shame-faced urchin came up with his sodden hat, retrieved from the breakers, which he shook and clapped on, glowering.

The boat’s crew scrambled up and assembled behind Kydd. He bowed to the officer and turned to address his bewildered men. ‘Stand up straight, y’ scurvy villains!’ he growled. ‘We’re about to take a surrender from the Dutch but he’s insisting on a good show in front of the locals. We’ve no Jollies right now so you’ll have to do.’

Stirk caught on quickest and wasted no time in hurrying out to take charge as ‘sergeant’.

‘Stan’ to attention!’ he roared hoarsely, glaring at them.

They obeyed with enthusiasm, if in highly individual poses. ‘Belay that, Toby!’ Poulden blurted in dismay. ‘I’m cox’n an’ it’s me as—’

‘Silence in th’ ranks!’ Stirk ordered gleefully, then twirled about and knuckled his forehead to Kydd. ‘Surrender party ready f’r inspection, sir!’

So it was that grave military courtesies were exchanged that marked the reluctant yielding by one to the overbearing forces of the other, and while Kydd and Francken solemnly conferred, the barge was sent back with orders for the ship.

On the flagpole at the landing place, the Batavian flag descended as a gun salute thudded out importantly from the frigate. The English Union Flag was bent on, and as it slowly rose an identical salute banged out.

Honour satisfied, there was nothing more to do than shake hands and depart, with a promise to send later perhaps a more permanent form of soldiery for an official ceremony.

Mossel Bay, the last defensive work on Kydd’s list, was some way further along the coast and was very much an unknown quantity. A port serving the frontier region of Boer settlement, it had tracks radiating out into the vast interior to exchange produce for trade goods.

How had the Boers taken their colony’s sudden reversal of fortune? Would they fight to the last for their lands? Or had they no inkling of what had befallen their largest town?

Stretching out along the scrubby red-brown coast they made the prominence of Cape St Blaize before noon of the second day. Mossel Bay lay around the point, and at this remoteness the sudden appearance of a frigate could have only one meaning.

The foot of the cape was seething white with, further out, a welter of conflicting seas betraying the presence of Blinder Rock, carefully marked on the chart. In tiny words along the edge the information was offered that, centuries before, the Portuguese navigator Dias had reached this far to prove that there was a route east to the riches of the Indies and Cathay. Kydd gave a wry smile: Renzi would have delighted in the knowledge.

Like so many of the havens in the south of Africa, this was open to the south-east and thus a lee shore, but as they rounded the cape well clear, the defending fort was quickly spotted. Squarely at the tip of the promontory, the national flag streaming out, this was a much more substantial structure. Low, squat and pierced for guns, it was well placed to command the scatter of buildings below and could reach out and destroy any who dared to threaten the score or so of various craft huddled within the curl of shore beyond.

Once more his barge put out, its large white flag prominent, L’Aurore at single anchor with her colours in plain view. As they neared the shore the landing place came into sight, a sturdy pier advancing into the sea, quite capable of taking alongside coastal brigs – or smaller troop transports.

Well before they reached it, a file of soldiers trotted out and formed line. An officer arrived, dismounted from a white horse, and stood watching their approach, his arms folded arrogantly.

Kydd mounted the boat stairs, conscious that, despite Tysoe’s best efforts, his uniform sagged and was tarnished with seawater. The officer waited, obliging Kydd to come to him. Dressed distinctively in a blue coat with red facings and silver epaulettes, his black boots were immaculately polished and he wore a tricoloured sash about his waist.

His features were dark-tanned and hard, and he stood with ill-concealed animosity.

‘Captain Thomas Kydd of L’Aurore frigate. I bring greetings from His Britannic Majesty,’ Kydd opened. In his limited experience, most Dutch had English, unlike the French. ‘Sir, I come with news of—’

‘Major Hooft, Fifth Regiment of Pandours. You wish a parley, sir?’ he snapped, slapping his side impatiently with a riding crop made of the tail of some African beast.

‘Sir, I bear tidings from the governor concerning the present situation,’ Kydd said carefully.

‘Ver’ well.’ He spat an order at the African sergeant and stalked off towards the small town, leaving Kydd to follow in undignified haste. There was a factor’s office near the wharf and Hooft went in with a crash of doors. ‘Uit!’ he bellowed. ‘Iedereen krijgt uit!’

Frightened clerks spilled out into the sunlight, blinking and confused. ‘We speak now!’ Hooft threw at Kydd. He took the biggest chair and sat legs outstretched, looking up at Kydd. ‘Well?’

Kydd handed a document to him. ‘The governor prays you will understand the necessity of coming to an early arrangement for—’

‘Wat een zottenpraat?’ Hooft shouted, waving the paper. ‘How dare you, sir?’

‘Major Hooft, I don’t understand—’

‘Why, this is signed by an Englishman! Governor? Apekop!’

Kydd held his temper with difficulty. ‘You may not be aware that after a recent battle there is a capitulation. Here is the proof – signed by Baron von Prophalow himself.’

‘Ha! I have heard of Blaauwberg – a temporary reverse at arms only. Prophalow had no right to sign a capitulation while our forces regrouped. It’s a treachery! The true governor of the colony is at Swellendam at the head of his army, and if you think I betray him while our colour still flies then you insult me, Captain,’ he thundered.

‘I beg you reconsider, sir. Our landings are complete, we—’

Hooft shot to his feet. ‘Go, sir!’ he said in fury. ‘Go before I order my men to deal with you as you deserve.’

Kydd forced himself to remain calm. ‘My ship—’

‘Will be fired on if it’s still there in one hour.’

‘Sir. If you fail to come to terms with me, it must be reported to my commander and unfortunate consequences will in course ensue.’

Lifting his crop, Hooft slowly advanced on Kydd, smacking it into his palm. ‘You threaten me? I’ll remind you, Mynheer, that we are enemies and we are still at war.’

Kydd stood his ground, holding the man’s gaze steadily.

‘So!’ The whip hovered an inch from his nose. ‘I give you five more minutes on Batavian soil – then I come for you, hein?’

Kydd had no option but to return to his ship and did so. On the face of it the encounter had been absurd. For all the man knew, the frigate in the bay could well have held numbers of troops ready to storm ashore – but then again, he would be aware of how fraught a task that would be for Kydd under the guns of his fort.

There was no way Kydd’s orders included starting a war on his own. He must allow the arrogant prig his triumph, return and admit to General Baird that there was still one significant defensive work manned and active in his rear.

He looked back at the fort on the heights, glowering down, dominating the little harbour. It stood on three-hundred-foot near-vertical cliffs, and any attempt to bring L’Aurore inshore to threaten bombardment was risking too much.

The coast on either side away from the harbour was rock-girt and forbidding and, as far as he could tell, had nowhere suitable to land a boat of any kind. The only conceivable place was the pier.

Quite close by, and firmly under the guns of the fort, a convenient fresh-water rivulet lazily issued over the sand.

A road leading along the foreshore was fringed with houses, then disappeared up into the scrub.

Risking ship or lives in a gesture was not warranted. ‘Get us under way, Mr Gilbey,’ he snapped.

‘Um, where to, sir?’

‘West’d. We return,’ Kydd said, with a look daring the lieutenant to comment.

‘Aye aye, sir.’

They fell away before the brisk wind and soon Cape St Blaize turned to an anonymous dark grey and sank below the horizon as he slumped in his chair moodily. Tysoe came and set his table for dinner.

He accepted a glass of claret and as he sipped a thought came. One that swelled and blossomed until he laughed aloud. ‘Ask the master to attend at convenience,’ he ordered, and sat back in satisfaction.

‘I see, sir,’ Bowden said admiringly, putting down his breakfast coffee. ‘During the night we stood out to sea and completed a triangle that sees us the other side of Mossel Bay, and when we appear, it’s as if we’re another ship!’

‘Not quite.’ Kydd helped himself to another roll and applied the plum jam liberally. ‘It’s not L’Aurore that will appear – but a local coaster as will need watering. It arrives near dusk and can’t begin until sun-up.’

‘With men concealed, sir?’

‘Not only men – but a surprise for our biggety Dutchman.’

‘Sir?’

‘First things first, Mr Bowden. We’ve to catch our vessel or we have no plan. Is the coast in sight at all?’

‘The master thinks we’re some six leagues beyond Mossel Bay, sir.’

‘Good. We’ll keep well in with the land and I desire a sharp lookout for any small vessels. I’m to be called the instant one’s in sight.’

As if catching word of their escapade, not a sail blemished the horizon, just simple native craft, a mussel-dredger, after which the bay was named, and a Moorish vessel with a soaring lateen, an exotic token of the utterly different world that lay around the tip of Africa. But no coaster.

Then a hesitant hail from the maintop. ‘I see a – a barky, lying inshore!’

They had just passed a small but lofty headland and opened a very pretty inlet nestled in green bluffs, with a near perfect triangle of white sand at its head. Moored safely to seaward of the breakers was a high-sided two-master – a lugger or schooner: with her gear struck down, it was difficult to tell.

A few buildings perched on the side of one steep slope – was the owner there and willing to hire his vessel? ‘Away the cutter,’ Kydd ordered, after L’Aurore had hove to. Would the local settlers deal with the English enemy? If not, then they were in trouble – by their own admission they were now at peace, and seizing a coastal trader would be deemed piracy.

The boat surfed in on the backs of eager combers in an exhilarating ride through the shallows, and beached with a hiss. Kydd, in plain dress, moved to the bow. He sprang over the gunwale and up the beach before the next wave. Poulden and Stirk loped to his side.

There was a feeling of placidity in the hot sunshine as if the ancient continent were asleep. On the left were a few huts and shanties and Kydd trudged towards them, the pungency of drying fish reaching out to him.

As they neared, a dog started barking, then another. The animals rushed over, mangy and odd-coloured, disputing their progress. An astonished African woman with a basket of fish on her head came to berate them, but stood open-mouthed.

Stirk kicked at the dogs with an oath and they raced off. The little group trudged on. At the end of the beach one shack, larger than the others, had a wide terrace on stilts with wicker chairs and tables proclaiming its trade.

‘We’ll try the tap-house,’ Kydd said. It looked deserted in the afternoon heat but as they mounted the steps an unshaven and tousle-headed white man emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. He stopped in astonishment. Then, on seeing L’Aurore offshore, his face cleared.

‘Do you speak English?’ Kydd pronounced loudly.

A chuckle emerged. ‘I reckon,’ he grunted, ‘seein’ as I was born in Stepney.’

‘Then you’re the very man to help us. Captain Kydd, two of my crew. Now, we’d like to discuss—’

‘Hold hard, Cap’n! This here is the Red Ox mug-house, what th’ Dutch call a wijnhuis on account you’ll get no beer. Now what’ll you be havin’?’

‘Tell me – is there a fort or soldiers close by? If we’re seen . . .’

‘Never. Closest is Mossel Bay an’ he never stirs his arse unless there’s a profit in it f’r him. No, rest easy, shipmates, ain’t no one going to disturb ye here. I c’n recommend the blackstrap, out o’ Stellenbosch, it is. So that’s three, then?’

Kydd gave a tight smile – as long as they had a result by nightfall . . . and there was, of course, the necessity to obtain local information. Aware of the expectant looks from Stirk and Poulden he offered a shilling. ‘Will you take this?’

‘Lord love yer! O’ course. Now m’ tally is Jones, shall we say, an’ I’d admire to know how th’ old country is faring. I don’t get t’ see too many o’ me countrymen out here – I tell a lie, I’ve never even seen hide of an Englishman since—’

‘Later, Mr Jones. What we’d like to do is hire that two-master out there. Do you think it possible?’

‘It’s possible if I say so.’ Three heavy china cups appeared and a rich scarlet liquid was splashed into them from a nameless bottle. ‘Take a snorter o’ that, then. Tell me what ye thinks.’

It was remarkably good: full-bodied and honest, quite distinct from a European claret. ‘A fine drop, Mr Jones,’ Kydd said sincerely, adding, ‘And we’ll need a muzzler each for my stout boat’s crew.’ There would be ribaldry on the mess-decks later as it was learned that the captain had stood a round for them in the line of duty.

He took another sip. ‘You said Major Hooft is interested in profit?’ he prodded.

‘Ye’ve had dealin’s with the bastard already? He’s a militia major only, puts on these dandy-prat airs and he’s aught but a jumped up revenooer, takes a tax on the grains comin’ from up-country an’ there’s not a soul but hates the sight o’ him.’

‘So his fort’s really nothing to speak of?’

Stirk jerked to his feet, swearing and lashing at his trousers until a large lizard scuttled away. He sat again slowly, trying to look casual.

‘Fort? It’s big enough, wi’ great guns an’ all. Tell me, Batavia bein’ y’r enemy, have ye any thought o’ making a strike agin the Cape? It’s a right dimber place as would—’

‘Less’n a week ago we defeated the Dutch at Blaauwberg. Cape Town is ours.’

‘Glory be! So the Cape is British . . .’

‘Well, er, the Dutch governor is still in the mountains with an army – but, never fear, our redcoats are on their way to dispute with him.’

This was met with a cynical smile. ‘Oh? In back-country mountain kloofs he knows s’ well? He’s a-waiting f’r the Boers to come from the veld t’ reinforce him. Then he’ll be down on ye.’

Kydd grimaced and changed the subject. ‘Mr Jones – how is it you, as an Englishman, are suffered to remain free under Batavian rule?’

‘Another beker van die wyn, Cap’n?’ Grinning, Stirk and Poulden pushed their cups forward. ‘It’s like this. There’s every kind o’ human on God’s earth livin’ here, an’ as long as we don’t kick up a moil, the country’s big enough f’r us all, so it is.’

‘But—’

‘We’re two thousan’ leagues from Europe, an’ we live different in Africa. Enough worryin’ about bein’ took by a rhino or lion without we start marchin’ up ’n down. Xhosa war drums on th’ frontier an’ Khoikhoi going scared, we’ve plenty t’ vex us without we take after your Napoleyong an’ friends.’

Kydd slapped at an insect but was too late: its spiteful sting lanced his arm. ‘That’s as may be, Mr Jones,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m to ask you again. Are you willing to hire your vessel to the Crown?’

‘Well, as t’ that . . .’ He flicked a rag expertly. ‘It’s not rightly m’ own. Belongs t’ Joseph M’Bembe. Ye’ll need to speak wi’ him.’

Swallowing his annoyance, Kydd asked, ‘Where can we find him, then?’

‘Oh, I c’n send a younker when we’re ready. Stayin’ f’r vittles? There’s a right fine mutton bredie as is waitin’ f’r attention . . .’

Kydd found another coin and slid it across. ‘Do you ask Mr Bemby to call and I’d be much obliged,’ he said heavily.

‘No hurry, Cap’n. We’ve time – you’ll tell me o’ London this time o’ year. How’s y’r—’

‘I’d take it kindly should you send for Mr Bemby NOW!’

With a hurt look Jones put fingers into his mouth and whistled. A barefoot child rushed in, his hand held out meaningfully. He looked askance at Kydd’s coin but after a scolding in some native dialect he scampered off.

‘Well, now, we was speakin’ of London an’ what sport’s t’ be found this time o’ year . . .’

The dark bulk of a massively built man appeared at the steps up to the terrace, then stopped, looking suspiciously at the three white men. ‘Se vir my wie jy is?’ he said softly, in a voice that was rich and deep.

‘They’s English, Joe, like me.’

‘What you want?’

‘To hire your vessel, Mr Bemby,’ Kydd rapped. If he didn’t get satisfaction in the next five minutes he would think again about the whole venture.

‘That your ship?’

‘It is.’

‘Why you want mine?’ The eyes were small but shrewd.

‘I’m offering to hire your whole vessel for three days, its crew not needed. The purpose is our business.’

‘English. You’s going agin the Dutch an’ you need my ship.’

‘I didn’t say—’

‘It’s Mossel Bay – you’re takin’ on Hooft.’ His face creased with mirth and he became animated. ‘That rakker Hooft! Not easy, not a-tall. He’s three hund’erd Pandours in that fort – Ndebele, no good. How many men you got in that ship?’

Kydd hesitated to take a stranger into his confidence, especially a country trader like this. But if he didn’t, there could be no move against Hooft.

‘I’m not starting a war with Major Hooft, Mr Bemby. Just a-persuading him is all. My plan is to bring ashore a howitzer – an army gun that throws a shell that explodes where it lands.’

There was a pair in L’Aurore’s hold from the Blaauwberg battle not yet returned to stores and one would make an excellent frightener for troops not expecting it. Stirk and Poulden exchanged knowing glances.

‘Where you take it on land?’ M’Bembe demanded.

‘I thought to come in just before nightfall as if we were watering. There’s that stream by the pier?’

‘Ever’one uses it, this is true.’

‘We sling the gun under a raft of four barrels, wait for dark and, um, get it up on the heights behind the fort ready for daybreak. I take it there’s no guns pointing inland?’ It would be strange if there were.

‘No. A good plan – and will never work.’

‘Oh?’

‘The soldiers will be curious why you water at night. The road to the top, ver’ steep, ver’ long. You never do this in time. An’ peoples will see.’

‘Then we’ll have to—’

‘No, man, we can fix.’ M’Bembe reflected for a moment then said, ‘I like your plan. This what we do.’

The timing was perfect. As the sun went down over Hartenbos peak in Mossel Bay a well-known livestock coaster doused her sails and found a place among the scatter of fishing boats off the beach.

The boat-boys sang cheerfully as they rafted the water-barrels together alongside, then seemed to think better of working into the night and instead set up an awning and lantern on the after-deck for an evening’s conviviality.

As the warm violet dusk faded into night, anyone looking closely might have made out a few figures busy with block and tackle on the opposite side who had not yet joined the party. But before it could get under way there was an irritated bellow from the beach. It seemed that there would be no slacking until the water-casks had been brought ashore ready.

The little double-ended boat was manned, Lieutenant Bowden himself taking an oar and suppressing a giggle at the sight of other L’Aurore seamen disguised in low conical hats, faces and limbs well daubed with galley soot, and muttering under their breath at the indignity.

The raft was ponderous and slow with the weight of the concealed gun but, of course, these were resentful sailors not about to exert themselves unduly and it was pitch dark before the gun grounded and was dragged ashore.

A low curse and a frighteningly loud wooden squealing and jingle of harness came out of the night as the promised ox-wagon came over the sand, animal snorts with the rank smell of the barnyard heavy on the air.

The squat bronze gun was small but heavy; hidden in a square box, it was satisfactorily anonymous. Ropes were brought and it was heaved around to the tail of the cart. More men jumped down to help, their white teeth showing as they grinned in delight at being part of the adventure.

Suddenly two soldiers materialised out of the blackness and asked suspiciously, ‘Wat doen jy?’ All movement ceased.

An easy chuckle came from the drover. ‘Het hulle jou nie vertel nie?’ He sauntered up and held out a packet. The soldiers muttered between themselves, then took it, waving them on before they left.

‘Quick!’ the drover hissed. The gun was heaved into the wagon with nervous energy, the cart settling with a thunderous creak. The boat arrived with the carriage and five heavy bags – shells and charges.

Bowden hauled himself up to the seat next to the drover. ‘How did you—’

‘Gave him bung for Hooft,’ the drover said, lightly cracking his whip over the leading oxen, which stolidly started the wagon in motion.

Curiously he asked, ‘Er, how much did you give him?’

‘A lot – of ol’ paper!’ he chortled. The ox-wagon dipped and swayed as it ground up a steeply sloping road into the night.

Some miles past Mossel Bay L’Aurore came to and anchored in ten fathoms. Kydd was taking a grave risk by stripping the frigate of every last man save a token five; all had a crucial role in a very few hours and to hold back could be fatal.

One by one the ship’s boats pulled ashore, landing the L’Aurore’s at the end of a wide beach, which marked the beginning of the heights above Mossel Bay. Kydd had the men mustered and they set out up a steep track into the African dusk, led by guides, the Royal Marines following and insisting on marching in proper form.

Sweating in the hot night, Kydd was thankful when they reached the top. Following the guides, they swung right and moved out on a turtle-back of high ground. Beneath, the lights of the settlement twinkled, but the massive dark bulk of the fort lay closer.

Now all depended on Bowden’s arrival. It was not until a bare hour before dawn that the unmistakable sound of the ox-wagon intruded into the stillness from the other direction. The men positioned themselves in accordance with orders, hunkered down and out of sight of the fort.

The howitzer was assembled, the gun crew hand-picked by the gunner’s mate. Kydd waited patiently. As soon as it was light, the howitzer was carefully sited and loaded, and when the faint sound of the reveille sounded on the still air, he gave the first order. The ugly little gun banged angrily into the morning peace and, seconds later, a shell exploded short of the rear wall of the fort.

The distant trumpet’s sound was cut off, as if with a knife. Moments later it was urgently baying the call to arms.

Another shell detonated close to one side. ‘Easy, Mr Stirk – this only to wake ’em up.’

After the third, men were at the embrasures to repel the mysterious attackers from inland, then began issuing out and massing for a counter-attack.

Time for the final order. Kydd stood and gave the signal. As one, L’Aurore’s entire complement, seamen, marines, every man and boy in her crew, dressed in anything that was red, slowly stood up – and all along the skyline, hundreds of English redcoats could be seen forming line for a merciless attack from the unprotected direction.

The effect was instant: in moments there was not a man left outside the walls of the fort.

Another shell burst close, its smoke wreathing the air and wafting back over the defenders.

‘Last round, sir.’ It duly banged out, but its effect was decisive. As Kydd watched, the colours were jerked down in ignominious defeat.