Conquest

Chapter 7

‘Ah, Renzi – I’d like you to meet Mijnheer Willem van Ryneveld,’ Baird said jovially, although his eyes remained cool and appraising. ‘In the last government under Janssens he was head man, as, who’s to say, their fiscal. Sir, this is Mr Nicholas Renzi, our colonial secretary.’

Civil bows were exchanged and, murmuring a greeting, Renzi took in the neat and intelligent features, the sharp beard and restrained but stylish dress.

‘Shall you entertain Mr Ryneveld, old fellow?’ Baird went on. ‘I’m to consult on military matters this morning, I believe.’

It was prearranged, but Renzi pretended to be taken by surprise and suggested a walk outside in the early-morning air. ‘I do suppose there’s much to consider,’ he said, affecting a leisurely stroll.

‘Yes, Mr Renzi,’ Ryneveld said, in a quiet and precise tone, falling into step beside him.

Renzi hesitated. This was a crucial time: if the previous ruling class took against them, their position would be untenable. If, on the other hand, concessions were offered, would it be taken as a sign of weakness?

His task was to sound out the chief figure in the previous administration, get a view on the distribution of allegiances and delicately allude to the advantages of co-operation.

He stopped to admire the rearing bulk of Table Mountain, so close. ‘Such a magnificent prospect, Mr Ryneveld,’ he said. ‘A sight to transport the Romantics to ecstasy!’

The man stood attentive, but silent.

‘And how curious it is that the mountains in Africa rear out of the earth so very abruptly,’ Renzi continued. There was still the same polite attention as he added, ‘Is this perhaps why we can so easily distinguish ranges at a distance, with none other to obtrude?’

He let the question hang and eventually Ryneveld answered: ‘Singular, perhaps. I’ve heard that the Great Winterhoek is still visible at eighty miles.’

They reached the end of the parade-ground and turned together. Then Renzi saw a tiny ghost of a smile. He couldn’t help but grin back and they chuckled. The ice had been broken.

‘Shall we talk?’ Ryneveld said.

‘By all means.’

‘Then I’d hazard that if I should be so impertinent as to make query as to the intentions of the new order, you would be exercised as to how these might be implemented.’

Renzi allowed a measure of concern to enter his voice. ‘The colony faces hunger and danger – common humanity demands we come to an understanding.’

‘Then might I know how your governance is to be achieved?’ Ryneveld asked cautiously.

‘I cannot speak for General Baird—’

‘Of course.’

‘– yet I do sense that he appreciates the care and tolerance of the Dutch in their past administration and is minded to emulate it.’

‘A pity if that were so.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Renzi said in surprise.

‘The previous establishment – the Batavians – were in thrall to Bonaparte, who controls their nation. Decisions here were not necessarily taken in our best interests. Shall you?’

‘Sir, our purpose here is not in the character of conqueror. We are, as it were, obliged to make landing and occupation in order to prevent the French from seizing a strategic position that would enable them to sever our trade routes to India, nothing more.’

‘That much is apparent, sir.’

‘Therefore it is not in prospect to exploit the colony for its manufactories or resources.’ Renzi paused, then said significantly, ‘Which supposes our best course is to allow the continuance of the system of government that prevails.’

He saw an unmistakable gleam of interest. ‘This to include the code of law, currency, rights of property – what say you, sir, to a restoration of all the traditional customs and trade practices as have been in place in Cape Town for these centuries past?’

‘All?’

‘Just so.’

‘Then I’d be compelled to describe it as a mistake, sir.’

Renzi was taken aback. This, from the previous first man of government? ‘May I know why?’ he asked, after a space.

‘The Batavian government is recent, a parvenu. Our origins are far in the past as we were founded by the Dutch East Indies Company to be naught but a victualling stop on the way to the Spice Islands. They ruled until a handful of years ago and their motives were selfish, their loyalty only to their shareholders. A polity such as this has no right to rule, still less to be imitated.’

‘Are you then a radical, sir? Do you despise the former ways?’ Renzi asked. If he were, it would instantly disqualify him for any position in the administration they were trying to bring together. A revolution would be a distinct liability in their precarious situation – and where would be their ready-made civil service?

‘Not at all. The Dutch ways are direct, practical and well suited to this land.’

‘Then?’

‘I was fiscal in the previous government. There are regulations I would strike down and there are laws I would strengthen. It’s a small, inward-looking society of many races and beliefs and requires careful nurturing. Do you know that in Cape Town today the slave population exceeds the free by thousands? That the Malay Muslims demand their own burying ground? That the Xhosa people speak by the clicking of tongues?’

It was becoming clearer: Ryneveld was making a bid for power in the new administration on the grounds of indispensability. But would he commit publicly to collaborating with the conquerors?

‘For myself, I’m a newcomer of days only,’ Renzi said neutrally. ‘These curiosities deserve attention, and insights from one of undoubted understanding would be well taken. However, it’s in contemplation to go much further – to entrust the well-running of the settlement to the people of Cape Colony themselves. Do you think it wise to allow the upper reaches of such a governance to be in Dutch hands or would it be prudent to staff it with English appointees?’

‘If you are sincere in your desire to bring forward the natural aspirations and feelings of the inhabitants of the Cape, then only the totality of what exists, the continuation of the known order, will bring the confidence and contentment in its administration that you stand in need of.’

Renzi nodded gravely. ‘If there will be one who stands for the people of Cape Colony, would it not be seen that such would be in the pay of the English and therefore betrayed his countrymen?’

‘No,’ came the firm reply.

‘Come, sir. This land was settled by the Dutch, now another has usurped their ancient rights. Do you not believe this to be injurious to their feelings?’

Ryneveld gave a tiny smile. ‘In turn, I’m astonished you English have not railed against the usurping Dutch – after all, it is you who have the prior claim. Was it not in 1620, a generation before our Jan van Riebeeck, that your Captain Shillinge took formal possession of the Cape in the name of King James?’

‘It had slipped my mind,’ Renzi said smoothly.

‘Then, sir, I think it true to say that should affairs be conducted in the old ways, congenial to the sensitivities of the honest citizens of Cape Town and conducive to the swelling of trade, you shall have a contented colony.’

‘Upon the advice of one of discernment and discretion, intimate with the delicacies of public affairs at the Cape . . .?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Capital!’ Baird said. ‘If he’s willing to serve it means he’s others of like mind behind him. I do believe we have a way forward. Tricky that Janssens is still in the field – two governors, divided loyalties and such.’

‘Never mentioned, sir.’

‘Then he shall be appointed fiscal again.’ Baird laid down his pen and smiled expansively. ‘Excellent! No offence intended to my soldier brothers but a civil complexion to our rule is essential and now we have it. A rather good wheeze I came up with, hey? We may now move forward, I believe.’

‘Shall you wish your cabinet to meet?’ Renzi asked.

‘I’m not intending in the future to conduct my affairs by committee, my dear Mr Colonial Secretary. It shall be informed of the resumption of a civil administration and then dissolved. Any advice I might require I’ll ask for at the time. Now – I do think it about time we made a few proclamations. Let’s see . . . one about allegiance to His Majesty, o’ course, but at the same time a grand one as sets ’em a-twittering, opening the port to trade and such.’

‘Allegiance? Could not this be seen as somewhat presumptive, the Batavians being as yet undefeated?’

‘Then what do you see as standing in its place?’ The tone, however, was pleasant and encouraging.

‘Um, I’d say a stern admonition of sorts from your own good self, urging citizens to abandon General Janssens’s cause as hopeless in the face of garrison reinforcements from England expected daily.’

‘And pointing out the undoubted advantages of settling down to an enlightened domestic rule – yes, that will do. Now, while I summon Ryneveld, see what a fist you can make of the wording, there’s a good chap!’

As Renzi reached his office, a terrified woman escaped with her mops and buckets and a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman presented himself. ‘Sir – Oudtshoorn, chief clerk. I do hope your office will be satisfactory. If there’s anything . . . ?’

‘Thank you, er, Oudtshoorn.’ They entered and a younger man at a small desk to one side rose awkwardly.

‘Stoll, your private clerk. You may rely on his discretion.’ Renzi was astonished that so many Dutch had such an excellent command of English.

Oudtshoorn turned to Stoll. ‘Do you soon acquaint Mijnheer Renzi with the present workings of the secretariat. He may wish to make changes.’

‘Sir,’ the young man said, touching his forelock in an old-fashioned way.

After the chief clerk had left, Renzi was obliged to cut short Stoll’s earnest conversation and sat behind his vast desk to compose his thoughts.

How utterly unreal it was! After a near-mortal fever, years ago, had led to his quitting the Navy he had not, since then, held any post of consequence he could boast of, and his attempt at establishing a new life in New South Wales had failed miserably.

Since then his closest friend, Thomas Kydd, had provided him with board and lodging in the form of a position aboard his ship while he pursued his studies. It had worked most agreeably, well suited to his character, his horizons always new, never the limited ones of the scholar in his fusty rooms, yet in his own eyes he’d never really been gainfully employed.

Now here he was, sitting in state as a colonial secretary, with all the trappings and influence that came from being so close to the summit of power.

He had no illusions about why he had been chosen. For Baird he was perfect: educated, intelligent, of an appearance and, above all, with no loyalty to a faction. He was not ambitious and, in his tendre for scholarship, no threat – and immediately available. His evident connections at the highest with London might prove useful in the future but would at least ensure that he was not trifled with by others.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Stoll watching him covertly as he busied himself. Renzi bent to his task of finding a form of words for nothing less than the coercion of a people to accept foreign rule. It was a challenge that would test his literary powers to the limits.

He stared ahead, his quill at the ready. Fragments of Pausanias on helotry in conquered peoples drifted into his mind. The Athenians had robust views on rulers and the ruled, pithy aphorisms that went to the core of what it was to extend conquest into dominion.

Pulling himself together, he gave a wry smile. His studies into the vanished worlds of long ago had not prepared him for producing actual decrees and proclamations, of turning political intent into workable public instruments. This was going to be an interesting occupation.

‘Whereas . . .’ Everything official began that way. Then what? He glanced about for inspiration and found himself catching Stoll’s wary eyes. He looked away: it was this man’s lands and heritage he was dealing with.

‘Whereas a party of Batavian troops, under the Orders of Lieutenant General Janssens is attempting to oppose the authority of the British when further resistance is—’ Is useless? The usual denunciation of the oppressor? No – something like, ‘injurious to the settlement and its trade’ would better serve.

Stoll darted anxious looks towards him. It was no good. Renzi could not concentrate. He rose slowly and Stoll shot to his feet. ‘Oh, er, whose is that office?’ Renzi asked, indicating a small side room.

‘That is where Mijnheer Höhne, your sworn translator, goes when you call for him, sir.’

‘Very well. I shall work there for the moment.’

Stoll blinked in consternation, but said nothing.

Alone at a small desk in the modest room, with a rather charming painting of a Dutch family scene on the wall, Renzi set to with renewed purpose and soon had a draft. He reviewed its phraseology, aware that it would be pinned up in public places.

. . . to inform the Inhabitants of this Colony that being in possession of the Town and principal Places the whole be subject to His Majesty’s Authority . . . most strictly enjoin them to have no communication with the aforesaid Corps . . . will draw upon themselves consequences of the most serious nature . . .

He concluded with a solemn reference to the inevitable miseries of a protracted state of warfare set against a future of prosperity and growth under a settled population, and took it to Baird.

‘Exactly so! Fine work, Renzi. You’ve a translator? Then we’ll get it cast in Dutch and set out beneath. We’ll have, say, two hundred struck off immediately and posted up. Then we’ll need to get our heads together on how we deal with this damned grain shortage.’

Renzi made to leave but Baird called after him, ‘Ryneveld took the position. I rather think it a good idea should you make an early official acquaintance.’

‘I will, sir.’

‘Oh, and – How shall I say it? I’m sure there’s a half-decent tailor in town – you’ll soon be looking to dress for the part, hey?’

‘Point taken, sir.’

If anything the office of the fiscal was grander still than his own and was a hive of activity as the engine of state was in the process of being set in motion.

‘Ah, Mr Secretary Renzi!’ Ryneveld greeted him with outstretched hands, clearly relieved that order was emerging from chaos. ‘Are you content in your accommodation?’

‘Why, yes, indeed.’ He graciously enquired after the fiscal’s own situation, as the playful thought crossed his mind that, if he himself was not happy, he had the power to eject Ryneveld from his office in favour of himself.

‘The problems will pass,’ Ryneveld said, in happy exasperation. ‘My closest post-holders wish to serve, which is gratifying. A working administration is not impossible, I believe.’

He hesitated then added, ‘You will not have had the time to set up an establishment of your own – if it is more convenient, my wife Barbetjie and I would be honoured should you dine with us tonight.’

Of course, Renzi realised, as he was now at some eminence in society, he must cut a figure, graciously entertain. He would see to it. But now what better public demonstration of his aligning to the British cause could there be for Ryneveld? ‘That is most civil in you, Mijnheer. I should be delighted.’

The afternoon passed pleasantly, the two drawing up a table of positions obtaining in the previous government for reference in forming the new. The wisdom of adopting completely the existing body of governance quickly became apparent – everything from the Court of Justice to the Chamber for Regulating Insolvent Estates, the Lombard Bank and Orphan Chamber, Tide Waiters and Matrimonial Court, Lands and Woods, all with their subtle interweaving of loyalties time-honoured, understood and ready to serve.

It remained only to win them over, or end with them sullen and obstructive – or worse.

‘A good day’s work, Mr Secretary. I think we have earned our dinner,’ Ryneveld said, first carefully locking his papers in his desk.

‘I would rather it were Nicholas.’

‘We Dutch are jealous of our honorifics, you’ll find. I am Schildknaap Ryneveld to others and would resent its overlooking. Please forgive if “Mr Secretary Renzi” offends, sir.’

Outside, Renzi stood squinting in the late-afternoon sun, admiring the square ramparts of Table Mountain so dominating the landscape.

‘My carriage.’ Ryneveld beckoned.

The open-topped vehicle was compact and expensively appointed with a youth holding a wide green umbrella over them. The driver clucked at the stocky horse and they lurched forward.

Renzi took in the sights with interest. It was a settlement like no other, at the end of Africa, a vast and mysterious continent that separated it from the old European civilisations of the north. Here, men had settled, their destiny shaped not just by the land but also by surging events happening far, far away.

The town was well laid out – neat, with wide streets and the sun-baked glare of whitewashed houses set off with green shutters and doors. An amazing variety of peoples were abroad: Malay slaves with bundles of faggots, grizzled Bushmen carrying bundles, hard-looking countrymen in broad-brimmed hats, hurriedly followed by a score of men with baskets on their heads – and well-dressed women primly stepping out, each followed by a maid with a silk umbrella, as could be seen in any avenue of Europe.

Ryneveld lived in the lower town, in a relatively modest mansion that was set about with a shady and colourful garden, which Renzi politely admired as they passed through.

‘My wife Barbetjie.’ A plump, practical-looking lady with an elaborate hair-dressing came to the door and curtsied gracefully to Renzi’s formal bow. ‘Do enter, good sir,’ she said, in quaint English. ‘A welcome awaits.’

He was ushered in and offered chilled wine as they sat in the drawing room. With its dark panelling and tiled floor, it was remarkably effective in preserving a cool against the heat outside.

‘A singular place, Cape Town,’ Renzi ventured.

‘As no other,’ Ryneveld said firmly. ‘Even the flowers, the fynbos – and for its beauty and richness of species it stands alone in the world. And where else in this tropical continent might you encounter penguins and fur seals both?’

‘Er, are you perhaps inconvenienced at all by the more . . . forward species? The lion and elephant do spring to mind when thinking of Africa.’

‘The Cape lion was much feared around Table Mountain in Riebeeck’s time but has not been seen this age. The leopard and lynx are still to be encountered, but never the elephant. Nevertheless, if you mean to travel it would be wise to give heed to your guide.’

‘Even in town?’

‘Here at night you may meet hyenas on their way to devour offal on the foreshore, in the day troops of baboons. More to be respected is the spitting scorpion or perhaps your Cape cobra, its poison every bit as venomous as that of the black mamba,’ Ryneveld added.

‘Oh. Then the hippopotamus—’

‘Our dinner is served, gentlemen.’

They sat down at what was clearly a family meal; Ryneveld at the head, Renzi at the other. Opposite Mevrouw Ryneveld was a shy girl who darted glances at him and next to Renzi a young man with a look of patriotic defiance on his face.

Ryneveld pronounced a Dutch blessing on the meal and raised his eyes. ‘Our humble repast – a bobotie only,’ he said quietly. ‘Haasje, do help Mr Secretary Renzi to a portion.’

Renzi enjoyed the spicy dish, meat studded with dried fruit and nuts and topped with a savoury custard. It was clearly a family favourite.

After dinner, the men retired to the library, a discreet and well-appointed room. Renzi stood admiring the volumes while Ryneveld found a bottle with a wax-sealed cork and opened it carefully. ‘A Cape liqueur, made with the skin of the naartjie fruit and orange blossom.’ Two glasses were produced and filled. ‘And named after Admiral van der Hum of the Dutch East India Company who did so admire it.’

The thick golden liquid had a tantalising tangerine flavour but was very sweet. ‘A little too sticky? Then we’ll add some brandy.’

Ryneveld was the perfect host and Renzi relaxed in his company. Here was a man of the world, an acute observer, whose interest in his guest was not contrived and who took an intelligent pleasure in the discussion of philosophies and the arts.

But the talk petered out when Ryneveld’s manner turned grave and introspective.

‘The grain famine?’ Renzi asked, with concern.

At first the man did not answer, then said woodenly, ‘For your nation, if this affair turns out against you then you’ll sail away. For me, I shall be left to answer for my conduct.’ He set down his glass very carefully. ‘Until now we’ve been able to console ourselves that we have our independence, but for all that, we must understand that we are merely holding the colony for Bonaparte.’

‘He’s still “protecting” the Netherlands, I gather.’

‘The French Army occupies the Low Countries,’ Ryneveld agreed, ‘but the Batavian Republic forced on us in imitation of the glorious French Revolution is still headed by our own Grand Pensionary Schimmelpenninck, who stands staunch.’

‘You’re concerned for the mother country,’ Renzi said sympathetically.

‘I am – but this is not what disturbs me. I was recently given some very unpleasant news concerning it that directly affects us here.’

‘Oh?’ Renzi felt the warmth of the wine fall away.

‘What I have heard confidentially is nothing less than that Napoleon will shortly end the Dutch Republic and place his own brother, Louis, on the throne of Holland in contempt of all the principles of the revolution.’

It was a bombshell. Presumably there was now nothing that could prevent the French taking formal possession of the Dutch colony for themselves.

With a cynical smile Ryneveld continued, ‘It’s always been said that the Cape is a feather in the hands of the Dutch and a sword in the hands of the French. You can be sure that, now the way is clear, they’ll stop at nothing to recover it!’

Renzi’s mind raced. Baird must know of this, of course, but it left him in a frightful situation. Within days of taking possession he faced two major problems: an army still in the field opposing him and the pressing need to reduce numbers by sending away a large proportion of his troops. Would his fragile defences hold against a determined assault?

‘I’m no soldier,’ Ryneveld said, ‘but I’d think that the advantage must still lie with you as defender.’

‘Possibly,’ Renzi said, with a wry smile. ‘Yet Cape Town fell to us, you’ll agree.’

‘Of course. Your commanders will probably know by now that we were much outnumbered. Goewerneur Janssens did what he could, but who is able to stand against those devilish Highlanders? No, with a professional general of the army at its head, the defenders will make good account of themselves. I suspect that General Baird will want to fall back on the defences of the castle and town – with your ruling of the seas he will not be in want of supply.’

So much depended on Popham – and here such a tiny force to set against a determined foe. ‘The Navy will do its duty,’ Renzi found himself saying.

‘I’m sure it will, if only to honour its great Admiral Nelson. Yet the gravest threat is not to be met on the ocean waves – it is here.’

‘The people?’

‘Quite. There are those who would be rid of the English, who would think it a duty to take cause with any who could overthrow you.’

‘May I know . . . ?’

‘I will tell you.’ Ryneveld sipped his liqueur. ‘The feeling among the general populace is that the French will soon return and overthrow you. These people will fear retaliation for having collaborated and will be reluctant to fall in with you. But the good people of Cape Town, those of property and standing – those we call the Cape Dutch – will see a settled and prosperous future under the free-trade rule of the British as much to be preferred, especially should you stand by your promise to abide by the old laws and customs. They’re tired of being cut off from the world, threatened with wars and upheaval not of their making. You’ll have no trouble from them.

‘They are in small numbers, though. Even counting the lesser sort, the population is only some six thousand, and outnumbered therefore by the slaves who, if you take the rural as well, are some twenty, possibly thirty thousand. These are the Cape Malays from Java, others from Madagascar and the east of Africa, but never from the south. Now, if some hothead or provocateur stirs them up I’ll leave you to consider the consequences.

‘But it’s the folk of the country, the boeren, whom you must never trust. They are poor, hard, uncouth and restless – and therefore well suited to existence up-country, at the edge of civilisation. You must understand that, since the early days of the VOC – the Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie – which is our Dutch East India Company who founded the colony at the Cape, they’ve always been rebellious and hostile to rule.

‘When the last Stadholder of the Netherlands fled before the French Revolution to England, it was the Boers who supported the Batavian Republic against the VOC here. They’ll have no love for a country that shelters the old enemy. And know that they’re the core of Janssens’s army, some of the best irregular mounted troops anywhere, and loyal only to him.’

Ryneveld picked up his glass again and looked shrewdly at Renzi. ‘So what we must say, Mr Secretary, is that you have made conquest, but how long will you be able to hold it?’

‘And so I give you a toast. Gentlemen – t’ Billy Roarer as is Neptune’s right royal favourite!’ Gilbey spluttered, red-faced and happy.

‘Which is to say includes her noble crew of souls,’ Curzon said languidly, knowing it would niggle the first lieutenant, whose efforts to deny his own humble origins led him to keep Jack Tar at a snarling distance.

‘And never overlooking the Royals,’ Kydd came in, with a gracious nod to Clinton, the young lieutenant of marines, who blushed and raised his glass in return to his captain.

L’Aurore had now rounded southern Africa and was standing out into the Indian Ocean in flying-fish weather, bound for Lourenço Marques and utterly in her element.

Bowden, as Mr Vice and having acquitted himself of the duty of the royal toast, now joined in the merriment. ‘Damme, but Mossel Bay was well done, sir!’ He chuckled. Their bloodless success there would never make it to the history books but it was the tonic the ship’s company needed to put behind them the grim scenes with Bato.

He posed, theatrically hanging his head and intoned:

When first on board this ship I went,

My belly full, my mind content –

No sorrow touched my heart:

I view’d my coat, so flash and new,

My gay cockade, my hanger too,

And thought them wondrous smart;

But now, alas! My coat is rent,

My hanger’s pawned, my money spent;

Shiv’ring walk the quarterdeck,

Dreading first lieutenant’s check

Who struts the weather side!

Amid the appreciative applause Curzon came in with another, delivered in a charming boyish falsetto:

I’m here or there a jolly dog,

At land or sea I’m all agog,

To fight, or kiss, or touch the grog –

O! I’m but a jovial mid-ship-man!

About to launch into the second verse, he stopped awkwardly and ribald cries went up. ‘Go on, sir! Can y’ not remember the words?’

But in the august presence of their captain it would never do to continue the rest of the racy ballad. Bowden came to the rescue, the only one in the gunroom who knew their commander had a voice. ‘Sir, can you feel it in your heart to favour us with . . . ?’

Kydd quickly reviewed his repertoire, which now included pieces from salon and drawing room, but they were not what was wanted. Instead he held up his hand and in the respectful hush began in a soft but manly baritone:

Tom Truelove woo’d the sweetest fair

That e’er to tar was kind;

Her face was of a beauty rare,

More beautiful her mind;

This tale, his mess-mates sorrowing tell,

How sad and solemn three times rang;

Tom Truelove’s knell . . .

When he finished there was an incredulous silence then a storm of acclamation. It had brought a rush of sailorly feeling, the age-old warmth of mariners alone together in a far-off sea, tender remembrances of a native land stealing into their thoughts to soften their existence.

Another wistful song was offered by Bowden, one more from Curzon and, after obliging remarks on the efforts of the officers’ cook that evening, the gunroom lapsed into an introspective quiet.

‘I’m thinking we should be raising a glass t’ our little piece o’ empire,’ Gilbey reflected moodily, ‘as they’ve got so much going against ’em.’

Clinton snorted, his face flushed. ‘Blaauwberg showed Johnny Dutchman what we can do, damn their eyes!’

‘An undefeated army in the field, nothing in the granary and a country half the size of Europe to hold down – I’ll wager we’ll be packing our bags for England in the space of a three-month,’ Peyton said cynically, helping himself to the bottle.

‘Never so, Doctor!’ the master, Kendall, rumbled. It was the first he had spoken that night and heads turned to listen. ‘We’ve a navy second t’ none other, c’n keep ourselves well supplied an’ them Hollanders starving. An’ never forget, any wants t’ take the Cape back has to get past us.’

‘Get past us?’ Peyton drawled sarcastically. ‘Then you haven’t heard of the heavy squadrons Bonaparte sent to sea after Trafalgar? Three, or was it four, sir?’ he challenged Kydd.

‘Five, I believe,’ Kydd said mildly. ‘Let me see . . . We’ve L’Hermite in the Gulf o’ Guinea with frigates, Leissègues with four o’-the-line – but he’s for the Caribbean, I fancy. La Meillerie with four frigates off West Africa, but Willaumez with six battleships in the South Atlantic at this moment and Maréchal still in the Indian Ocean.’

‘And we with a couple of paltry sixty-fours and a single pair of frigates – even if one be none other than His Majesty’s Ship L’Aurore,’ Peyton returned, his words heavy with irony.

There was an edge to Kydd’s voice as he replied, ‘I should leave the strategicals to us, Doctor. The gentlemen here are not concerned, neither should you be.’

‘Has anyone stepped ashore in this Lourenço Marques?’ Bowden asked lightly. ‘I’ve never heard of it before now.’

It seemed there were none who had in fact done so. ‘As it needs our Mr Renzi t’ tip us the griff,’ Gilbey said, solemnly regarding his port. There was a general murmur of agreement: Renzi was a valued member of the gunroom and his presence missed.

‘The pilot hasn’t much t’ say,’ Kendall said thoughtfully. ‘Around twenty-five south latitude, one o’ the last half-good harbours sailin’ south.’

‘Portuguese,’ Kydd said. ‘Been there since the fifteen hundreds, the south part of their old empire they share with the Moors – Zanzibar and other places. Should be a fine place to stretch the legs.’

The mood brightened at the prospect of an exotic foreign port with novel sights and smells.

‘Then here’s to Lorency Marks!’ Peyton said gleefully, raising his glass.

L’Aurore stretched out willingly, slashing through the glittering seas away from Africa to reach her destination in two boards, not only to make her northing in the face of the north-easterly monsoon but as well to avoid the fast south-going Agulhas current close to the coast.

It was a time to gladden the heart of any sailor. Close-hauled with gear set for long watches at a time, the frigate was rock-steady and predictable, her motion easy and sweet, an occasional burst of salt spray over the bows carrying aft.

Forward, the old sailmaker Greer smiled with satisfaction as the boatswain and his party sent up a patched staysail while the watch on deck sat cross-legged around the main-hatchway teasing oakum, an unassailable excuse to tell yarns and gossip.

At the conn, Lieutenant Bowden gave a shy smile at Kydd, clearly relishing the conditions. Kendall, beside him, was taking in the vast blue bowl of sky with a tranquil gaze, and the quartermaster, having little to do, contentedly chewed his tobacco, gazing with a faraway look out over the headsails.

On impulse Kydd removed his hat and began a leisurely pace forward, enjoying the sights of a frigate in her prime on a bowline, the comfortable creak and thrum of her passage, the gratifying symmetry of masts and lines, sheer and camber, the—

‘Saaail, ho! Saaail three points t’ the weather bow!’

The urgent hail from the foremast lookout cut into his thoughts. At deck level it would be some time before they became visible and it could be anything – there were active trade routes in this part of the world that made it likely to be a merchant ship. But this far out?

‘Deck, hooo! I see three sail – an’ big ’uns!’

Three men-o’-war? Only too aware of the French heavy squadrons at sea, Kydd turned and hurried back to the quarterdeck. ‘Close as she’ll lie!’ he snapped, now fully alert.

L’Aurore was in no real danger: she could wheel and make off downwind at any time she chose, and if these were indeed Willaumez or Maréchal, then his duty was clear. He would shadow them until he could establish their course, then clap on every stitch of canvas to get the news to Cape Town. At this distance he could be sure of reaching there days ahead of lumbering battleships.

Another hail. ‘I see eight of ’em – no frigates!’

Kydd breathed a sigh of relief: scouting frigates ahead of the squadron could make it very hard for any shadower.

Away to weather, tiny pale shapes interrupted the horizon as they hove into view, three, four and more until all eight were visible. Gilbey had his sextant up, held flat as he measured the angle between the strangers and L’Aurore’s course. Another sighting, minutes later, confirmed that the distant ships would pass ahead by some margin.

‘Stand down the men,’ Kydd ordered.

‘Sir?’ said Bowden, puzzled.

‘Do you not think it significant that they’re holding course?’

‘That they think us not worthy of attention?’

‘Not at all . . .’

‘Ah! They’ve other business – they’re a John Company convoy!’

‘Well done, Mr Bowden. However, I do think we’ll make our number – for a certainty they’ve not heard of our taking Cape Town.’

For any mariner, after weeks in the oceanic vastness, another ship was always of the deepest interest and the calling to of an important East India Company convoy must seize the attention of every soul in the fleet.

‘Then what is your news, sir, that I’m obliged to stop my progress?’ the commodore said loftily, but with barely concealed anticipation. ‘Consols above five per cent? The nabobs combining against the tax?’

‘I’m to inform you that His Majesty’s arms have met with success on the field of Blaauwberg before Cape Town and as a result the colony is ours.’

‘And?’

Kydd blinked. ‘This is a development of some significance, sir.’

‘Really? I can’t see why. It’s never been our practice to rely on touching at the Cape, and the Dutch have never seen fit to interfere with our trade. What, then, is it to us?’

‘To take on fresh victuals, allow your passengers ashore – er, to fettle your ships?’

‘Hmmph. Your notions on what is of significance to us is singular, sir. I’ll have you know the concerns of a convoy commodore are many. At the moment I’ve no notion where two of my most valuable sail are – they scattered in a blow during the night.’

Kydd bristled – then realised that the stately convoy must have been outward bound for over a month and would not have had word of the greatest news of all. ‘Of course, this is not the reason why I’ve seen fit to speak to you, sir.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s my duty to acquaint you of a great battle, the grandest this age in which the combined fleets of France and Spain were finally met by the British fleet under Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson off Cape Trafalgar.’

‘Yes? And?’ the commodore said incredulously, jerking upright.

‘Sadly, Lord Nelson died of his wounds at the height of the battle and is now lost to us.’

‘Good God!’ The commodore fell back, stupefied.

‘As it happens, I was present at the engagement,’ Kydd added.

‘But – how was . . . Did we prevail? How many – Sir, can I offer you sherry? You’re in no hurry at all?’

‘That is very kind in you, sir, but the progress of your convoy . . .’

The change of attitude was gratifying, and Kydd gave a powerful account of events, then added sombrely, ‘Now Bonaparte has changed the French conduct of the war at sea. Not able to face our fleet, he’s sent numbers of his battle squadrons to harry our trade.’ He went on to detail the forces unleashed.

The man’s face lengthened: the big privateers based on the French-held Indian Ocean islands were bad enough and the pairs of frigates sent roaming the sea-lanes were worse, but to have to cope with a naval battle squadron was unthinkable. ‘This is grave news, sir. This ship alone bears some six chests of specie and silks to a very great value. Its loss would be catastrophic. And the others – why, in sum it could bankrupt entire trading companies, even cause panic and a run on ’Change! So what does the Navy propose to do, Captain?’ he challenged.

If sail-of-the-line were taken from their blockade to chase the enemy squadrons it would achieve what Villeneuve had failed to – a lifting of the clamping hold on the French ports and thus the ability of their navy to combine and fall on England. The Admiralty would never countenance it.

‘I’m not privy to the dispositions of my commander-in-chief, sir, but you may be sure that there are fast squadrons of our own in close pursuit.’ Whatever could be scraped together from a badly overstretched navy, and set to find their quarry anywhere in the immensity of oceans across the globe, he reflected cynically.

Kydd concluded with a promise to send newspapers of Trafalgar – the gunroom would still have them – and took his leave. In the boat returning to L’Aurore he looked back thoughtfully at the convoy: grand ships of the illustrious British East India Company, run on a discipline little different from the Navy’s and in their bellies the treasure that was allowing Britain to defy the whole of Europe. They must win through.

L’Aurore took up again eagerly, a picture of grace and warlike beauty as she leaned to the wind. In a short while the last of the Indiamen were hull down and then their sails disappeared below the horizon, and the seascape was as if they had never been.

Alone once more, the frigate sped on. ‘I’ll tack about now, I believe, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd said. The manoeuvre was performed at a leisurely pace – there was no point in straining gear – and then they were on the final leg, their course set direct for Lourenço Marques.

Almost unbelievably there was another cry from the masthead. ‘Saaail! All t’ weather, three – no, five saaail!’

It couldn’t be another John Company convoy. Then came another hail. ‘Deck, hooo! They’re all alterin’ course towards!’

This was the confident act of warships but it was vanishingly unlikely that this was a British squadron for he hadn’t been told to expect any. It was the enemy.

Kydd hailed back: ‘Whaaat shiiips?’

There was a hesitation as the lookout strained to see, clinging to a line, his body unconsciously leaning forward while he shaded his eyes. ‘I see two sail-o’-the-line, three frigates!’ he finally called down.

Kydd’s orders were straightforward: he was to shadow and report. Yet here was a puzzle: why was the entire squadron going after his single frigate?

Then the icy thought blasted in that this powerful force was in the wake of the East India Company convoy, bare hours astern of them.

Upwind of them, the French were in a dominating position but only one thing stood between them and the convoy: L’Aurore. Against two line-of-battle ships his brave vessel would not survive the first broadside. Yet to step aside and let a catastrophe happen was intolerable. He must try to buy them time.

‘Mr Kendall—’ Even as he was about to give his orders the answer came as to why they were crowding after L’Aurore: they assumed she was an outlying escort and would lead them directly to the convoy.

‘Lay us on the other tack,’ he called to the sailing master, ‘with all haste, and I do expect you to miss stays.’

While L’Aurore floundered in her fright and confusion at sighting the French, Kydd ordered the master’s mate, ‘Make a signal, Mr Saxton!’

Bewildered, the young man fumbled for his notebook then took down, ‘To commander-in-chief: my fore-topsail yard is sprung. I request leave to both watches and – numeral five – men overboard.’

Saxton opened his mouth, then thought better of it and hurried away. Soon three hoists were urgently fluttering aloft as the frigate plunged off to warn her convoy – in precisely the opposite direction.

Would it work?

The topgallants of the enemy were just in sight from the deck; if they took the bait, the tiny white sunlit sails should foreshorten as they hauled their wind in chase. If not, L’Aurore would pass them by and they would disappear.

His mouth dry with tension, Kydd stared out at the distant cluster, willing them to change. Slowly their aspect altered, the glare of white from the sun fading. And it was . . . all of them. Every one of the French squadron was now in pursuit of L’Aurore, being drawn away from the convoy.

But for how long? Any false move on his part and L’Aurore’s bluff would be called. For a certainty the French commander would then fall back on his original track, straight towards the convoy.

The leading ships were hull-up now, their angling course allowing them closer. At that moment, therefore, L’Aurore was under tight scrutiny from telescopes. Kydd kept his own glass on them for there was one move that would turn the tables – if the French detached the faster frigates to deal with him and then, ranging further, found nothing.

But the frigates were kept back: the cautious French were playing safe in case L’Aurore was a scout for a distant British squadron, tasked to lure them on to bigger ships. They were left unmolested to play out their gambit and Kydd’s anxiety began to subside. If he could keep them on this course after him until dark they would be drawn sufficiently clear of the convoy.

One piece of irony was that L’Aurore was easily outpacing the French when she should be keeping well in sight, leading them on. If this squadron was Maréchal’s then it must have been at sea for months, if not years, and was slowed by marine growth. He ordered a discreet drag-sail over the bows that would keep them in sight.

Kydd was gratified: a classic manoeuvre of evasion and deception had saved the priceless argosy at the cost of not a single shot. And probably not too severe a delay in reaching Lourenço Marques. All in all it was— He was interrupted by the sudden cry of a lookout. ‘Deck, hoooo! A sail – no two, right ahead!’ It was absurd – three sightings so close, here in the vast reaches of the ocean.

Was this the other jaw of a trap? It made no sense – why was the whole squadron involved? And, in any event, how could these two know which course L’Aurore would take? If it was all by chance, was this the rest of Maréchal’s scouting force? Or an English naval detachment? Or innocent strangers caught up in a larger war? Whatever the reality, a decision had to be made. If—

‘They’s Indiamen!’ came the disbelieving cry from the lookout. Then Kydd remembered the commodore had mentioned that two of his charges had been separated in the night. And, by the cruellest misfortune, L’Aurore’s ploy had led the French straight to them. In one stroke it had altered the situation decisively and he must take the consequences.

‘Cast off the drag-sail!’ he roared forward, and snapped the orders to make straight for the pair. Forcing his mind to an icy coolness, he weighed up the alternatives. Abandoning the two merchantmen to their fate in the face of such odds was unthinkable – it would make his name a byword for dishonour. This left only the heroic and ultimately useless sacrifice of L’Aurore in their forlorn defence – the logic of war demanded it and that was what had to be done.

He would not make it easy: it would be played out to the last throw. There was the tiniest chance that if he could get the Indiamen to wear about and flee for their lives then, with the enemy slowed by their bottoms being foul, the two Company ships could disappear into the enfolding night – but that was hours away.

In the Indiamen someone quick-witted enough to work out what was afoot had them wheeling about without being told, seeing Kydd’s colours if not his nonsense signal.

All too soon, however, it was apparent why they had separated from the convoy. One of the two that flew the bright red stripes of the Company was favouring her foremast. She had unseasonable reefs in her topsail and course – probably the mast had sprung in some squall, unbalancing other sails and making for poor sailing. The other was low in the water, no doubt having sprung a leak in the same blow from wrung timbers. They had almost certainly come together for mutual protection against privateers but, thanks to L’Aurore, they now faced a battle group.

It was the damnedest, most evil luck, and before long the last act must be played out. The mercy was that it would be very quick: once battle was joined they had not the slightest chance. The only question was whether the French commander would send in the frigates to finish it, preserving his 74 from damage.

Kydd would use L’Aurore’s speed and superior wind-holding to best advantage, but the act of protecting would sadly limit his manoeuvring options to just a small space of sea. In terms of tactical planning, there was nothing he could do.

When they had overhauled the Indiamen, Kydd hailed the closest with a speaking trumpet as they bucketed along close together. Few words were spoken, the unknown captain opposite acknowledging with a heartfelt ‘Good luck!’ and sweeping his hat down in an elaborate bow.

Kydd’s instructions to them had been brief: course would be altered to more full and bye, and when the point came for play with the guns L’Aurore would fight for time, while they fled in opposite directions to what safety they could find.

L’Aurore then took position on the enemy side and the three made their best speed for the far horizon. Ironically the conditions were perfect for sailing, the north-easterly steady and urging and no more than a slight swell from the east. Overhead the sky was an immensity of glorious blue with little cloud, and in any other circumstances would have the watch below spending their leisure on deck, admiring their racing motion.

After an hour it became clear that they were losing the race. The French were now in sight from the deck and beginning to spread out as manoeuvring positions were being taken. There would be gunfire before dusk.

Then Kydd heard an indistinct shouting from the men on the fore-deck and saw some pointing away to the east. One broke away and ran to the quarterdeck. Kydd cursed under his breath – settling a quarrel was the last thing on his mind.

It was the seaman Pinto, obviously distracted. ‘Sir – sir, look! T’ the east’d!’

Taken aback he looked to where Pinto was pointing at a cloud not as big as man’s fist but somewhat darker than the others and with a distinctive reddish centre some thirty or so degrees above the horizon.

‘Sir! This I been told b’ my shipmates as have traded wi’ Africa is the Ox-eye!’

‘Get back for’ard, y’ Portugee fool!’ Gilbey flared. ‘We’ll have none o’ y’r Papist notions aboard this ship!’

‘Hold!’ Kydd said. Before he’d been elevated to the quarterdeck he had been mess-mates with Pinto and knew the man not to be given to superstition. ‘What’s then your Ox-eye?’

‘Is called “Olho de boi” – the eye of bull – an’ we see it before a terrible kind o’ storm.’

‘Have you heard of this, Mr Kendall?’

‘I never have, sir. That’s not to say the Portuguese don’t have a right steer on things, they being in these waters a mort longer’n we.’

‘Tell us more about your Ox-eye.’

Pinto looked scornfully at the first lieutenant, then explained that it was portent to a tempest of unusual severity, one coming with no warning other than the Ox-eye, which would grow in size until it dominated the heavens.

Kydd regarded the seas, as easy as they had ever been, a low swell from the east, no omen of a tempest in the offing, all in hand. He looked again at the cloud: small, ovoid and with a red centre; harmless in itself. Then back at the pursuing French. If Pinto was right, they should batten down for the storm soon – but if he was wrong it would be madness to shorten sail at this point: they would then be most surely delivering themselves up to the enemy. On the other hand, if he was right and it was ignored, the ship was in grave danger. How the devil could he confirm the truth of it?

‘Mr Gilbey,’ he said formally, ‘I desire every officer and midshipman to muster in the gunroom.’ What he had in mind was nothing less than the violation of a gentleman’s privacy.

When the mystified group had assembled he told them, ‘I’ve been advised that the odd-looking cloud to starboard means there’s a right clinker of a blow coming.’

The officers looked at each other uneasily. ‘Sir, you’re surely not giving ear t’ the Portuguee?’ Gilbey growled. ‘Such cat-blash as—’

‘We’ve a chance – a small one – to find out. If he’s right, we need to know about it. If he’s wrong, no harm done. There’s one whose intellects I’ve reason to trust, but he’s not aboard this day.’

The purser arrived, looking confused. ‘Ah, Mr Owen. Be so good as to open Mr Renzi’s cabin. Gentlemen, you are to make use of the library you’ll see there to discover references to this “Ox-eye” or in the Portuguese, “Olho de boi”.’

He smiled at their astonishment – he was sure Renzi would appreciate the drollery of the situation. ‘And I’ve no need to mention that time is pressing,’ he added, stepping aside to let them in.

They set to, each selected a volume from the neat racks occupying two sides of the cabin up to the deckhead, and brought it to the gunroom table where brows furrowed in concentration.

Even Kydd was amazed at the abstruse variety of Renzi’s reading. Thick works on the philosophies of the Ottomans, others on the agricultural practices of native peoples, still more on jurisprudence considered culturally – and, blessedly, a shelf and a half on travels and histories.

Curzon was the first to spot it. In a frayed book a century old, Mechanism Macrocosm by one Purshall, there was reference to ‘those Dreadful Storms on the coast of Africa, which the seamen call the “Ox-eye” from their Beginning’.

It was tantalising but more was needed. Bowden came upon a slim and very old piece, Discoveries and Voyages to the East and West Indies, a translated Dutch work with a passing reference, but then he struck gold in a dictionary. ‘Olho de boi’ – from Vocabulario Portuguez e Latino of the Lisbon of eighty years before. But it was all in Portuguese.

‘Get Pinto!’

Awed to be in the presence of so many expectant officers, he took the book gingerly, and frowned. ‘Ah, the Portuguese navigators o’ the Orient Sea, is what we call t’ the east of Africa. Where we is now,’ he said, in dawning wonder.

‘Get on with it!’ Gilbey said peevishly.

‘Be silent, sir!’ Kydd snapped. ‘Carry on, Pinto – anything as can show us what we face.’

‘Says, Ox-eye start from little, grow wi’ colour o’ the funeral, until the face of heaven he turn scareful an’ then the wind come. Captains mus’ lower yards an’ topmasts for is sudden an’ dreadful. It say our Bartolomeu Dias when he sail in this sea in 1488 he—’

‘Thank you, Pinto,’ Kydd said, and summoned the sailing master. ‘Mr Kendall, your opinion, please.’

He listened to the description, then rubbed his chin. ‘Aye, well, it sounds main like a weather gall, the most common being a rainbow. If that’s what it be, an’ so quick, then I’ve a notion it’s talking of a tropical storm in the character of a local blow, but it has to be very . . . intense, if y’ gets my meaning.’

‘We batten down.’

‘If’n the signs are there, sir.’

The Ox-eye had grown, spreading laterally across the horizon, darkening and adding livid yellow to the red in its centre in a menacing show of aggression. Oddly, there was no indication of an approaching tempest, no high winds, heaving swell – nothing but the broadening ugliness.

‘Frenchies don’t mind,’ muttered Gilbey. There was no sign of a slackening in the pace of the pursuit.

‘I’m thinking it’ll be all of a sudden, like, when it comes,’ Kendall said, troubled. ‘All that talk o’ striking topmasts an’ such.’

Kydd hesitated – there was still a wild chance they could make the safety of night, and if he was wrong he would be for ever damned as a looby in the Navy. Then, there was a flurry in the steady north-easterly, a flaw that set the sails to a momentary bellying and slatting before settling. And it had come from out of the east – right in line with the baneful Ox-eye, which was now distorted and barely distinguishable in the crepuscular wall of melancholy occupying near half the horizon.

‘We do it!’ he muttered. He turned to the master and ordered, ‘Lay us alongside each of the Indiamen – they’ll have to know we haven’t lost our wits.’

The first was disbelieving and tried to object but Kydd was adamant. The second had heard vaguely of the phenomenon and was more prepared to comply. Both were sent to strike tophamper and distance themselves from each other.

‘Mr Kendall, bosun – we’re to douse all sail and send down topmasts. And we bring down the lower yards a-portlast!’ This action of laying the heavy spars down across the gunwales would lower the centre of gravity.

The pursuing French were visibly put out: as sail vanished from their prey they themselves took in canvas, unsure, wary of a trap. But it was becoming very apparent that something dire was brewing.

By the time L’Aurore’s yards were down the sky overhead was darkening, the sunlight cut off and the entire eastern aspect hung in livid, hideous greens and ochre upon the mass of dark grey. It had been only an hour or so from the first sighting of the Ox-eye when the winds began to break loose, slamming in from the north-east off the bow to past the beam, directly from the east. If sail had not been brought in they would certainly have been caught aback.

More spiteful blasts rattled the rigging, and combers could be seen here and there, startling white against the grey, the wind now driving almost always from the east. There was little talk along the decks, as men stared out at the gathering phenomenon.

Then they witnessed a strange sheeting across the surface of the sea: unnatural, flat, fan-like shapes of torn white instantly spreading and being replaced randomly by others, so when the wind hit, it was with a shocking force that sent men teetering and set L’Aurore to an uneasy rolling.

This was like nothing Kydd had experienced before. He grabbed a line and tried to peer into the lunatic hammering from the east. The entire sea was now flattened into a tortured expanse of white, yet waves had not appeared – was it that the ‘fetch’ of the winds was too short to build up a sea?

Again strangely, there was no rain – the darkness overhead threatened a deluge but the slam of wind remained dry, then grew damply warm in a ferocious onslaught, droning and howling dismally among L’Aurore’s stark rigging. The frigate for some reason started a nervous wallow and Kydd saw that it was because her head had fallen off the wind, which bullied and blustered mercilessly at her side, slewing her broadside to it.

It could only be that the sea-anchor, prudently led over the bows, had parted. Broadside to the blast L’Aurore rolled like a log, viciously and frighteningly, but Kydd knew the experienced fo’c’slemen would be doing all they could to get another out quickly.

Then the rain came: in storm-driven downpours, bruising torrents that had Kydd bent double to breathe, his sodden, flogging garments a trial as he held on grimly. There was a perceptible quiver and lurch, and L’Aurore was sullenly jibbing to the second sea-anchor, bringing round to face the wind once more.

The merchantmen had long since disappeared into the chaos of spume and darkness and the immediate need was to endure. God knew where they’d have been if they had not struck the topmasts and laid the yards down. No doubt in times past ships must have encountered this terrifying phenomenon and never lived to tell the tale, just vanished into the deep.

In an hour or so the rain had diminished and the frenzied battering lessened to a steady hard driving from the east. There was no navigating in this but there was sense in trying to reduce the awful strains aloft. Kydd raised salt-sore eyes to meet Kendall’s. ‘We’ll scud,’ he croaked, ‘reefed fore-topsail, fore-topmast staysail.’ The topsail would impel L’Aurore before the blast, lifting the bow, and the staysail would act to damp any deadly yaw.

The rain cleared and a desolate grey seascape was revealed – an empty expanse with not a sign of any of the ships that had occupied his attention. When their sails tentatively took the fearful wind, L’Aurore immediately began to roll. It was not the characterful motion they were used to, running before the wind, but a vicious, screwing heave that had each man reaching for a solid hold.

At the same time there was a near unstoppable yaw from one side to the other that left the four helmsmen struggling. ‘A cable, let out over each quarter,’ he shouted hoarsely at the boatswain, clinging to the mizzen shrouds.

Oakley nodded and, working hand to hand, made his way below. Kydd watched him go – his was a near impossible job: in the insane rolling, he had to rouse out a substantial hawser and heave it overboard to trail in their wake as a damper on the yawing.

It was finally done. The yawing eased and L’Aurore plunged on before the wind into the gathering darkness. Mercifully, with the night, the winds eased, and with little in the way of swell, the waves subsided. Only a few hours had passed, from the first appearance of the Ox-eye to its dissipation. Kendall had had it right: it was a species of local tempest that was short but shockingly intense, a product of the tropic regions.

The morning brought an innocent sky, the wind a kindly north-easter once more, the sea a picture of blue tranquillity. It was time to take stock.

Thanks to their precautions, there was no serious hurt to the frigate, and hands were set to clearing away between decks the broken articles, mess slopping about, all expected consequences of foul weather.

But where were they? They had been some hundreds of miles from the coast of Africa and south of Madagascar when the Ox-eye had hit. Then they had scudded before the wind – an easterly, so ironically they had been urged on towards their final destination, Lourenço Marques. They must now find their latitude, which would be possible with precision at noon.

The French were nowhere to be seen, but neither were the Indiamen. Who knew what had happened to them in those wild hours of the previous day? One mystery was solved later that afternoon: two ships close together were sighted ahead and away to the north. They turned out to be the Indiamen, one under tow by the other and relieved to be still afloat. The big ships’ much higher freeboard had enabled them to survive the rolling at the cost of offering a larger area for the wind to press against and they had wisely chosen to scud before it.

Their latitude placed them comfortably south of the Limpopo River further up the coast from Lourenço Marques and it was with some relief that Kydd shaped course towards it, closing with the coast. That left just one concern: where were the French?

The immediate task was to get the Indiamen to safe harbour. As the three storm-lashed ships made their way slowly south, Kydd and the master conferred.

The only chart Kendall had been able to locate was a private Dutch one of ancient provenance. It seemed to warn of a breaking bar across the entrance to the port, one Baixo Paiva Manso. Past that, it opened into a dismaying twenty-mile expanse of shoals at the estuary of the Rio Espiritu Santo. And in several places at the point where the river discharged into the sea there was the ominous-sounding zandgolven, which had been underlined by an unknown hand. It didn’t need much guessing to realise it meant sub-sea sand waves, shifting, unchartable hazards.

Without a pilot, it was going to be a difficult passage, and when they arrived off the sprawling whitish sand-hills and sliding overfalls of the river mouth, the bar was breaking and visible, but not the treacherous sand waves.

With a seaman at the fore-chains chanting the depths and another aft, they slipped past the scrubby margin of Africa in the rising heat until they were within the twin low arms of Ponta da Macenta and opposite, the Ponta dos Elefantes, the wind fair for their goal.

Lourenço Marques lay ten miles further, and Kydd had kept quiet about his fear that, if this was the only port worth the name on the coast to find safe haven, would not the French head for it as well?

It was too late now: they were within the bay and the wind that made it fair for entry would at the same time make a hasty exit impossible. They went on, the coast to starboard rising in dark-green cliffs. Here and there palm-tree clumps rose above the vegetation, and as they closed with the land, the fetid fragrance of Africa reached out to them.

Then at the sharp turn into the river there it was: a decaying fortress set about with palm trees and scrub, a scatter of humble dwellings and fishing boats. Lourenço Marques, the most southerly outpost of the ancient Portuguese Empire.

And not a Frenchman to be seen.