Conquest

Chapter 14

‘We were gulled,’ Kydd said in a low voice. To use the captured vessel’s own reckoning to find the base had seemed foolproof. ‘Take us back to the brig, Mr Kendall.’

The master hesitated, shuffling awkwardly. ‘Sir, it’s not f’r me to criticise, but in setting up y’r workings, did ye get a sight o’ the charts they had?’

‘No, the rascals destroyed ’em.’

‘Well, here’s a possibility as ye might think on . . .’

‘Yes, Mr Kendall.’

‘If the brig’s really out o’ Mauritius or some such, then they’ll be using Frenchy charts.’

‘And?’

‘All their reckoning will be with those charts – which, in course, uses the Paris meridian.’

It hit Kydd like a thunderbolt. ‘O’ course! Damn it to blazes!’

It was so obvious, once brought to mind. All British charts had the line dividing the eastern and western hemisphere – 0P of longitude – passing through the Greenwich Observatory in London. The French had theirs running through Paris. Therefore any given figure of longitude would be off by the difference, probably some hundreds of miles.

Kydd retrieved the situation in seconds. With the longitude of Paris being precisely 2° 21′ 3″ to the east of London, this correction was applied to the figures and they had a position near a day’s sail away to the west. ‘Well done, Mr Kendall! We’ll flush ’em yet.’

Next morning they raised a serrated mountain and later the other sea-marks came gloriously together at the new position, hardly needing the brig crew’s confirmation. As L’Aurore sailed serenely past, half a dozen telescopes were up on the quarterdeck, eagerly sweeping over the shore to take in every detail possible, for it was vital the frigate continued on her way without showing any sign of interest.

It was a perfect hiding place; in the unremarkable and characterless coast the entrance to the river and its sand-bar were barely visible, any secret base well concealed.

L’Aurore sailed on until two headlands separated her from the river mouth, then went to a buoyed single anchor as though snugging down for the night.

Kydd turned to his first lieutenant. ‘Mr Gilbey, I desire you shall find me a poacher.’

‘Er?’

‘Come, come, sir! As premier you are best placed to know our ship’s company. Find me a young lad who knows well his pheasants and hares.’

‘I, um – aye aye, sir.’

It took the additional good offices of Kydd’s coxswain, however, to discover the talents of the shy Leicestershire lad the lower deck called Buttons, down on the ship’s books as Ordinary Seaman Harmer.

Kydd then summoned Sergeant Dodd. The perplexed marine was hailed aft and told to find more suitable clothing than his fine red coat for an important mission ashore.

‘Now, call away the whaler for sailing, Mr Gilbey – I shall be undertaking a reconnaissance with Dodd and Harmer. You shall remain aboard in command.’

‘Sir, you can’t—’

‘I can and I will. You’ll have my written orders.’ If he was going to make decisions that sent his men into peril he wanted to see for himself.

In the face of Tysoe’s vigorous protests, his captain was clothed in old seamen’s togs. The stout-hearted sergeant donned the cooper’s work clothes. With young Buttons red-faced at the honour, the whaler was manned and rigged. Poulden took charge and the little boat shoved off.

Leaving the reassuring familiarity and size of the frigate brought a cold wash of reality. They were proposing to trespass on a territory held by an army of ten thousand no less! Only the thought that the enemy would believe it preposterous that any would seek to challenge such a horde made this mission possible.

They laid course for the first headland, staying just outside the line of breakers until they were in its lee, then raced through the surf until they grounded with a spectacular rush.

‘Out!’ Kydd ordered. The three members of the shore party raced up the beach and into the scrub, where they hunkered down, aware of the strange but pleasant fragrance of the sparse vegetation above the odour of hot sand.

‘Now, Buttons, do you go over the headland towards the river as carefully as you may, and see if you can sight a sentry. Off you go, lad!’ He needed no urging, disappearing expertly into the low scrub.

It was some time before he returned but Kydd had anticipated this. A poacher would be concerned to ensure that no gamekeeper was in front of him and equally that none was out to the side who could cut off his retreat. ‘A lookout, sir. Sittin’ on the beach by the river,’ the boy panted. ‘None else as I could see.’

‘We’ll get closer.’

Kydd and Dodd bent down and moved on through the scrub behind Buttons until the young lad held up his hand, signalling they were near. He crouched and beckoned them on, bellying forward until they topped the sand-hill and looked down into the river.

The rise of ground was too slight to see much beyond a glitter of darker water inside the paleness of the sand-bar – but there was the lookout, not a hundred yards away, sitting by the twist in the river mouth that hid the interior so well and staring out to sea, his figure stark against the near-white sand.

Kydd cursed silently. It was critical to the operation to get depth of water over the bar but that was in full view of the lookout. ‘I have to get to the sand-bar,’ he whispered.

‘Shall I take ’im, sir?’ Dodd asked.

‘No, he’ll be missed and they’ll be warned something’s afoot.’

‘Don’t fret, sir, I know how,’ hissed Buttons, mischievously, and faded into the undergrowth.

Minutes later, for the first time in Africa’s long history, the distinctive harsh call of a mating wood grouse was heard, rising from a regular chuck-chuck to its irresistible strident climax.

The lookout’s head jerked up and he looked around in astonishment. Kydd took up the cue and began circling to the edge of the river behind the man. The bird’s call stopped, the lookout stood up and gazed about. Then it started again, further away, alluring. With a quick glance out to sea the man padded inquisitively into the scrub.

Kydd had his chance: he stepped into the river and waded out, not daring to look behind, heading for the centre of the sand-bar. The white sand was firm, the river placidly sliding over it to meet the sea, but to his dismay he saw that in places it was barely inches deep. A sinuous deeper channel of sorts was at the far side, but with a foot or so of water there was going to be no rousing swift assault by boats.

He returned to the bank quickly, glancing upstream to note the river disappearing into a sharp bend. That produced one more complication: to get a sight of the base itself there was no alternative but to follow the riverbank up.

He waited until he was joined by the other two. The base would be guarded, of that there was no question. But would there be outlying pickets or sentries? The probability was that the French were feeling secure in their hidden outpost with such a huge army in the offing – but all it needed was for one only to spot them . . .

‘Go ahead, lad – if you see anyone, play the bird.’

With evening drawing in, after nearly a mile of nerve-racking progress they turned a bend and saw the base, palisaded and of a considerable size with distant figures entering and leaving by a gateway leading to a jetty. Faintly on the air came the sound of drums and massed chanting from a vast throng.

Kydd took out his pocket telescope. Close up, the scene was even more intimidating. The base looked impregnable, the palisaded fort, or whatever it was, large and sprawling with countless warriors passing to and fro. The only thing in their favour was that Kydd could see no embrasures for cannon.

‘What do you think, Sar’nt?’ Kydd said, in a low voice, passing across the telescope and trying not to let his worry show. He had deliberately selected the experienced NCO to assess their chances rather than the young lieutenant of marines.

Dodd took his time, studying terrain and cover, fields of fire, exposure. When he lowered the glass his face was grave. ‘Not good, sir.’

With night coming on, there was nothing to be gained by further reconnaissance and it was time to leave. Kydd took one last look before moving away.

‘Sounds like they’s workin’ up to a right gleesome night!’ Buttons whispered to Dodd, as they followed.

‘We must give ’em best, is my thinking, sail back with our prize – it’s no shame to recognise when the odds are overbearing,’ Curzon said sorrowfully. Next to him Gilbey pursed his lips but did not contradict him.

Kydd turned to look at Bowden, who started at being consulted and could only mumble something about the difficulties they faced.

Kydd’s gaze moved to Clinton. ‘What do the Jollies think?’

The lieutenant turned pink and stammered, ‘From what Sar’nt Dodd informs me, I – I’m inclined to agree. Without field artillery and cavalry, we stand no chance against such numbers. A frontal assault on a fortified position . . . er, well, I can’t see—’

‘Then we have to think again,’ Kydd said heavily. ‘If this base is not destroyed before it sets off the rising, we fail in our duty. Time is not on our side and any and every plan must be considered. Gentlemen . . . ?’

The discussion grew animated, but when there were no fresh ideas forthcoming, Kydd said, ‘Let me rehearse the situation. An attack of the usual sort will, of course, fail against such numbers. A surprise landing will not fare much better, for native warriors need only snatch up a spear and they’re immediately effective.

‘Very well. I feel Mr Gilbey’s suggestion of arming every boat with carronades and bombarding the fortification before a party of marines lands to set fire to the palisades is not practicable. I can tell you, armed boats cannot get over the sand-bar and, besides, if the material of the defences is wet by rain there can be no fire.

‘I like Mr Curzon’s proposal – that we blow up their powder store, thereby destroying the muskets stored with them as well. This will stop the rising directly. But I need hardly point out the gravest obstacle of all: how to approach without being overwhelmed.’

Bowden brightened. ‘Sir, as to that, my uncle served in the American wars and tells that the Indian savages never venture to fight at night for fear of the spirits that are abroad. Might we think these are no different? This would allow us to get close enough to lay a charge without being challenged.’

Kydd shook his head. ‘A good notion, Mr Bowden, but I can’t allow it.’

‘Why not, sir? There’s every—’

‘Because, Mr Fire-eater, we’d lose the whole party when the powder-store blows and ten thousand angry savages swarm about looking for whoever destroyed their new weapons.’

‘We could take ’em off by boats. That’d thwart the . . .’ Remembering too late, he tailed off shamefacedly.

Their plans all fell down at the same hurdle. No boats. Kydd had gone to the tide tables to see if they could wring just a little more depth of water over the bar but even at the highest state of tide they would still ground on the hard sand by a considerable margin. With enough men – say, a hundred or more – they could manhandle the boats over the bar, but bringing them ashore would leave L’Aurore helpless if Africaine showed up.

No, they had to give up. It was not humanly possible to—

Or was it? The Naval Chronicle of a year or two ago, in an article on Venice – that was it – had related how even ships-of-the-line could be built at the famous Arsenal, which was set in the midst of a shallow lagoon. On each side of the vessel was lashed a series of half-sunken lighters. These were pumped out and rose in the water, lifting the ship, which was floated out of the lagoon.

There was some peculiar name for them – yes, camels. They’d devise their own camels and float the boats over the bar.

Kydd took in the uncomfortable expressions around the table and couldn’t resist a delighted smile. ‘So this is what I’ve decided. We do both – lay the charges and send in carronade-armed boats, which’ll serve to take off the party too.’

‘Sir – boats?’ Gilbey stuttered.

‘Why, yes. With camels!’

It was the breakthrough, and after Kydd had explained the operation, the plan quickly came alive.

A sapper party would approach overland unseen while the launch and pinnace were brought over the bar. When these appeared off the base they would open fire, drawing the attention of the defenders, while the charge was laid. In the confusion after the explosion, the sappers would race down to the jetty to be taken off and all would retire.

It was a neat solution. The number needed for the operation was minimal, the sapper party could be retrieved and, above all, in one stroke it would stop the rising before it began, giving Baird enough time to find a more permanent answer.

There was just one problem: at night it would be impossible to reload. While cannon fire would cause an adequate diversion, the guns would then be useless if called upon to deter swarms of warriors turning on the fleeing sappers. Some other distraction would be needed.

‘Who will lead the boats, sir?’ Gilbey wanted to know.

‘I will,’ Kydd said firmly.

‘Sir! I must protest. Surely the honour is mine as first lieutenant.’

‘No, sir. Did you ever see Lord Nelson hold back when hot work’s to be done? That wasn’t his style and neither is it mine.’ He softened at Gilbey’s expression. ‘There’ll be many more such in this commission, I’m in no doubt. If a plan is your conceiving then most certainly you will lead. And in this action, why, you’ll in course be to the fore – in command of the other boat.’

Then to the other details. The camels: casks lashed upright together in a row with lines connecting them under the boat, fashioned so the cradle could be floated under and then the casks emptied to raise the boat bodily. The charge: this would be two powder barrels brought together and a length of quickmatch leading into one. The timing: this very night, in the darkness before dawn when the tide was at its highest. And finally the volunteers: Gunner’s Mate Stirk would think it an insult to his profession and honour if he were not asked to lead the sappers, and Kydd would allow him to decide his own party.

They set to. The boatswain laid out the lines to form the cradle, the cooper and his mate trundling the barrels into place where they were seized together in a string. It needed some thought to arrive at a means, when the time came, of emptying them quickly, but one was eventually found.

In the magazine the gunner and his mate prepared the quickmatch fuse. This was in the form of three cotton strands, much like candle wicks tightly twisted around each other, which had been steeped with spirits of wine in a mixture of saltpetre and mealed powder. Forty-foot lengths of the deadly cord were connected together and threaded into a linen powder-hose, then coiled into a cartridge box for safety.

From their stowage below were swayed up the eighteen-pounder carronades. These were fitted to slide beds in the bows of the two boats, complete with gun-locks and lanyards, Kydd finally settling on one round shot and two canister each. Although it was not feasible to consider reloading at night this was a precaution in case of delay until after daybreak.

Even the cook was roped in, for the galley funnel needed to be tapped to provide soot to conceal the faces of the sapper party. Stirk knew who he wanted – he and the strongman Wong would lay the charge while Doud and his tie-mate Pinto would see to the diversion. It was a good team, and when the time came to board the boats there were high spirits and confidence.

Once on their way it was another matter. Barely visible out in the blackness, the pinnace was a slight dark shape on their beam with the occasional white swash of wake. Kydd felt it a monstrous tempting of Fate to challenge such odds with just a pair of boats against an army of ten thousand. So much could go wrong – an alarm given as they were halfway across the sand-bar, an overlooked strongpoint – but these were the familiar anxieties of any clandestine operation and he crushed the thoughts.

Their timing was good: they arrived at the ghostly silence of the river mouth some hours before daybreak. There was no lookout posted, but all whispered as they worked.

Kydd’s launch nosed in first, the men leaping out and steadying it as the clumsy cradle was passed under the boat, the big casks, heavy with seawater, thumping shins and balking every inch of the way. Sweating and cursing silently, they succeeded – and then a most remarkable sight followed. Two dozen brawny sailors, each armed with a galley pot, began furiously bailing out the casks.

Even before they had finished it was clear the boat was going to make it over the bar so Kydd ordered it forward, men guiding it around the twisting channel to the deeper water beyond. The other was brought through but it was taking longer than planned – time was ticking by and to be caught in daylight would be utterly disastrous.

Stirk retrieved his gear: gunner’s pouch, a cartridge box with the precious quickmatch sealed inside and a satchel of ‘come-in-handies’ that no self-respecting gunner’s mate would be without. Wong and Pinto were each burdened with a barrel of powder sewn in canvas and strapped to their backs, while Doud carried a carpenter’s bag with a mysterious glint of brass inside.

The two boats were manned again and Kydd looked across at the four burdened figures standing in the shallows. So much depended on their courage and cool-headed devotion to duty. He tried to think of something encouraging to say but words failed him at the enormity of what he was asking them to do and he could only fall back on a hissed ‘Good luck!’ as they hastened away.

From the first, Stirk took the lead. The directions given were easy enough, and the almost luminous white of the sand beneath his feet made choosing a path easy. ‘Shift y’r arse, Pinto!’ he growled, as the Iberian fell back with the weight of his barrel. Concerned, Doud closed with him and, after a while, insisted on changing burdens. Pinto gasped his thanks and the party pressed on.

It was only a matter of twenty minutes or so before they came to the last bend and made out the secret base and the stark height of its palisades, with here and there the red glow of dying fires. Now oriented, Stirk took the little band in a wide circle to where they must lie-up. He dropped his gear and, on hands and knees, went silently forward. Almost immediately he saw the black shape of a warrior with a spear against the sky. Another was standing idly by.

He froze, fixing the position in his mind. Part of him rebelled in horror – he remembered the cannibalism he’d witnessed on a Pacific island – but this was no time to take fright. He backed away slowly to rejoin his friends. ‘There’s African bastards all about, mates. Doud – go out ’n’ give it y’r best, cuffin.’

Hefting his carpenter’s bag, Doud grunted, ‘Let’s go, y’ Portugee shicer.’

Leaning across, Wong whispered hoarsely to them, ‘Baak nin ho hop, pang yau!’

‘Thanks, shipmate,’ Doud threw back, with a grin, and they disappeared into the night.

There was one thing that was sure. Either their diversion worked or the entire expedition would fail – and their death would be certain.

It was the end for Renzi and it were better he accepted it. Prisoner and executioner followed the path as it wound around the bend and emerged facing the dark expanse of the wide lower reaches of the river, the starlight laying a pearly opacity on the still waters, so beautiful and infinitely poignant.

As graciously as at a garden party, the baron indicated a thicket of greenery at the water’s edge.

Renzi took position there, then turned to face the river, remembering to stand still so as not to upset the aim. It was odd but in his last moments he had no particular thought, no last-minute hot rush of memories – simply a wistful regret that for him there was to be no more future, in fact . . . nothing.

Behind him he heard the box open, the steely click of preparation and he waited for the extinction of life. Taking his last look at the innocent sky, he emptied his mind of thoughts. Behind him the pistol was cocked with a lethal finality, and then—

A deep, ghastly moan swelled away in the bush to the right, rising to a tortured howl that overwhelmed the senses with a primitive horror, baying at the night before finishing in a groan of despair.

In the split-second that the torch was dropped by a man paralysed with fright, Renzi ducked and the pistol fired blindly above. He swung round savagely and cannoned into the baron who was knocked sprawling. The sputtering light of the dropped torch revealed an assegai thrown away by the panicking men as they fled. He snatched it up with a snarl and held it to the baron’s throat.

‘Get up, sir! We have company!’ Nothing else could explain the existence in the African bush of a standard stirrup North Atlantic fog-horn dutifully groaning its message into an unheeding world.

As the cries of fleeing warriors faded, Stirk stood up. ‘Right, mate. We’ve work t’ do.’ He hefted his gear and made for the palisade. Wong joined him with the powder barrels.

Up against the heights of the palisade, the dense interweaving of laths and vines over hardwood uprights looked impregnable. They had nothing with them that had a chance against it. It was too high to vault over and, anyway, the top was ridged with sharpened stakes. Distant rallying shouts sounded in the night – they had minutes only before the warriors returned.

‘Gau ch’oh!’ Wong growled in exasperation. He pushed Stirk aside, placing himself squarely against the palisade and reaching with his big hands up and out. Carefully adjusting and testing his grip, he paused for a heartbeat. Then, with a roar of grunting, he heaved back mightily. The fabric shivered and bowed. Wong held his grip and, leaning outward, climbed up and jolted backwards. Once – twice – and, with a thunderous crack, first one, then another of the uprights gave at the base.

Cries of alarm and savage shouts from the darkness could only mean they had been discovered. Stirk fumbled under his shirt and yanked out a silver chain. Into the night, for those who could know, came the pealing stridency of a boatswain’s call piping, ‘Repeat the last order!’

An instant later the terrifying howl was heard again – much closer, erupting in a hideous swell of agony that could only have come from the undead of the nether regions. The shouts turned to frantic wails and rapidly faded into the distance.

‘I’ll bear ye a fist, Wong,’ Stirk said, and added his weight, heaving down heartily as if at the jeer-tackle of the main-yard. There was another splintering crack and the whole section lurched and drooped. Stamping it clear, he looked into the compound. As described, there was a low structure nearby and he darted across to it. ‘Over here, mate,’ he called.

To prepare took seconds only: a hasty slash at the canvas cover of the first barrel to expose a makeshift fuse from its interior. The end of the quickmatch was joined to it; he shoved the second barrel next to it and retreated, letting out the reel of quickmatch as he went. Through the palisades and out into the bush as far as the cord would go – there was no knowing just how much powder was in store.

In a pierced tin box a length of slowmatch was alight, of the kind kept in a match-tub next to guns in case of misfires. He tenderly took it out, blew on it and was rewarded with a healthy glow. ‘It’ll do, me old cock. Ready?’ Quickmatch burned at nearly the same pace as an open powder-train – as fast as a man could run. When it started, they had seconds to flee for their lives.

He jabbed the glowing stub at the quickmatch. It caught in a bright fizzle and disappeared as a red glow into the tube, racing unerringly towards its destiny. ‘Go!’ Stirk blurted, and careless of noise, they hurled themselves out into the bush.

When it came the detonation was cataclysmic, the livid flash picking out every detail of the scene, the fiery column of destruction reaching high into the night sky before it was hidden in roiling smoke, the gigantic blast lifting both men off their feet and sending them sprawling. Then round and about there came the patter and thud of falling fragments.

Disoriented by the numbing roar, Stirk staggered to his feet and, urgently gesturing to Wong, lumbered off towards the river and the vital jetty. Still half blinded, he nearly knocked over a silent figure, a white man, standing over another. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said automatically – then started, as though he’d seen a ghost. ‘Er, Mr Renzi? Ye’d better have it away on y’r toes wi’ us, sir. We’ve t’ be at the jetty before—’

‘Thank you, but first I’d be obliged if you’d relieve me of this gentleman and present him to Mr Kydd with my compliments. Tell him this is their ringleader. I’ve, er, other business to attend to – I’ll be at the jetty presently.’

Gaping, they watched him hurry off.

Kydd was warned by the fog-horn and, knowing attention was away from the river, positioned his boats in the outer darkness. The thunderous explosion shattered the stillness like the end of the world.

‘Give way, y’ swabs!’ he roared. The launch shot forward, towards the shore – and the general pandemonium. Warriors running aimlessly, shrieking their fear, small fires breaking out on all sides where burning fragments had landed. The jetty could just be made out but no anxious figures waiting.

‘Hold water!’ he ordered. They lay to fifty yards offshore, fearful that once they were seen, the panic could easily turn into a killing vengeance. In a frenzy they searched the riverbanks for their shipmates. Nothing.

Gilbey’s orders were to stay out and cover their approach with his carronade. Ashore, the disorder seemed to be subsiding – at any moment the horde could turn on them. Kydd left the sternsheets and scrambled forward to stand in the bows at the gun, peering to see.

‘Sir!’ one of the oarsmen said urgently. ‘Over t’ larb’d!’

It was clearly Stirk, and the others with him, struggling along towards the jetty and dragging another – but from the opposite side came a roar of anger. They’d been seen – and it was clear they were not going to make it to the jetty before they were overwhelmed. After all their immense bravery, to be slaughtered in sight of their salvation.

‘Ready the carronade,’ Kydd said steadily. In the dark, without the possibility of a reload, there were two shots and two only available between both boats.

‘Fire!’

The crash of the eighteen-pounder from out in the night with its heightened gun-flash was shocking as a heavy round-shot was sent skipping and slamming over the water to end smashing and rampaging through the undergrowth – a very visible blast of terror that renewed the panic.

‘Go for your lives!’ The oarsmen needed no urging and the big launch flew in towards the jetty.

‘Move!’ bellowed Kydd, frantically beckoning to the waiting figures.

Stirk roughly pushed in the stranger, who fell protesting into Kydd’s outstretched hands. ‘Who the devil—?’

‘Y’r ringleader, if y’ please, sir,’ Stirk said laconically, urging in his men before clambering in himself.

‘Be damned!’ Kydd spluttered, and hastily turning to the bowman roared, ‘Bear off, there – let’s away!’

Stirk grasped his arm. ‘I’d be waitin’ a mort longer, sir, as beggin’ y’r pardon,’ he said firmly.

Something about his old mess-mate’s manner made him pause but the warriors could now see what was happening and started to storm forward once more – then out of the blackness came another thunderclap: Gilbey had seen what was happening and fired his own carronade.

They were now defenceless – but Stirk had seen something and muttered, ‘They’s coming now, sir.’

To Kydd’s utter stupefaction, the unmistakable figure of Renzi loomed. Then, to his even greater astonishment, his friend theatrically produced Thérèse, sullen and tattered.

‘Might I present to you the Baron de Caradeuc, whose daughter I believe you’re already acquainted with?’

Kydd could only stare.

‘Er, we gets under way, y’ said, sir?’ the anxious bowman pleaded.

‘Aye – let’s be back aboard, by all means.’

Tired but elated, Kydd and his victorious men stepped aboard L’Aurore to a roar of welcome. ‘Get these two below under guard,’ he told Bowden, briskly, indicating the prisoners. ‘I don’t want to see ’em again before Cape Town.’

When he’d finally disengaged Renzi from the throng they went to the sanctuary of Kydd’s cabin. ‘Tysoe! Mr Renzi is near gut-foundered and craves a restorative.’

‘I understand, sir.’

The officers’ cook came personally and busied himself with supervising several tempting dishes, and Tysoe murmured, ‘We have still one of the ’ninety-two Margaux, which I recollect Mr Renzi particularly favours.’

‘Make it so, you rogue, and be damned to the hour!’ Kydd said happily, and fussed about a protesting Renzi in his old chair.

Soon glasses were raised and limbs eased. ‘Now, Nicholas, you’ll tell me what the Hades you were doing in such a place – or should I not ask?’

Between wolfed mouthfuls of mutton cutlets, Renzi told his tale, ending with ‘So when that fearful fog-horn let go, how could I not remember those times off the Grand Banks in Tenacious when the damned thing was going morn to night? And here’s to that old barky, dear fellow!’

‘And here’s to Toby Stirk, the cunning dog, who thought of it!’

‘Which I’ll second – I understand we owe our rapid withdrawal afterwards to the disinclination of our Xhosa friends to venture after us in the darkness where such dreadful spirits must lurk.’

After finishing his food Renzi laid down his knife and fork with a shuddering sigh, and closed his eyes. ‘There were times, my friend . . .’

‘Quite,’ Kydd murmured, in sympathy. He knew better than to go further – Renzi would talk more in his own good time. He toyed with his glass for a moment, then said, with a trace of defiance, ‘You must think me a sad looby to be gulled by Thérèse. I’m to say I never suspected for a moment, even while she dunned me with all those questions.’

‘Of course not, old trout. There’s others who’ve been deceived by her beauty and mystery, the chief of which must be my own self. And I’m here to tell you that her scheming to prise intelligence from you she considered a waste of effort, but as a man you proved to be . . . diverting.’

‘She said that?’

‘Indeed. Er, might it be hoped that this unholy experience has not soured you on the female race?’

‘Not at all,’ Kydd reassured him, with a wicked grin, ‘although perhaps I shall take a little more care where I set my cap in future . . .’

Two days later, L’Aurore, her prize astern of her, rounded the point into Table Bay. Surprisingly, it was considerably crowded, with more than two score weather-beaten ships moored all along the wide anchorage.

‘A convoy from England, Nicholas!’ Kydd beamed. ‘Our reinforcements have arrived at last, thank God.’ Baird’s dispatches must have done their work, for now not only had Whitehall received tidings of the action at Blaauwberg but had responded with all that was needed to make their presence permanent.

There were transports for garrison soldiers, store-ships with military supplies, merchantmen, no doubt laden with necessaries and luxuries, and stately Indiamen with notables on their way to India, who were now freely touching at their new port-of-call – Cape Town.

‘Well, m’ friend, I think we can say that Cape Colony now exists on the books in London. You’ll no doubt have such a scurrying about, quantities of forms to return, new regulations and laws – not to mention the accounting of it all. I almost feel sorry for you!’

‘Yes, it will be a challenge,’ Renzi said gravely, his eyes on the massive grandeur of the African country before him.

After hearing Kydd’s report Popham not only ordered him to inform the governor directly but insisted on accompanying him, along with the colonial secretary. ‘Good God, Renzi!’ Baird spluttered, aghast as the three were brought into his presence. ‘You’re – you’re alive! We thought you were taken by a leopard!’

Renzi set out the plot and its foiling briefly and succinctly, taking pains to give due recognition to Kydd and his intelligent reasoning, followed by his decision to go forward with the attack in the face of such odds.

When he finished, Baird shook his head. ‘The greatest stroke I’ve come across this age,’ he managed at last. ‘Have you ever heard the like, Dasher?’

‘Never,’ said Popham, warmly. ‘In the best traditions of the Service, Sir David. In particular I’d like to commend Captain Kydd on the moral courage he showed in breaking off the action with Leda to pursue the higher purpose. Captain Honyman was much annoyed as the Frenchy frigate slipped him by, but I shall speak with him on the matter and I’m certain he’ll hear no more of it.’

‘So,’ said Baird, with feeling, ‘here’s a what-a-to-do before me, I must declare. We can’t let it become public property in the colony that we were ever affrighted by the French or a rising by the Xhosa, so how can we decently hail it as a triumph? At the very least, gentlemen, in my dispatches I promise you I shall make it my business that it is not forgotten.’

He held out his hand in sincere admiration.

‘Well,’ Renzi said, with a sigh, ‘after the excitement it’s back to work for me, I fear. My desk under a monstrous pile, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Ah, as to that, er . . .’ Baird looked uncomfortable ‘. . . um, there’s someone I’d like you to meet, Renzi.’

He went to the door and called, ‘Ask Mr Barnard to attend me, if you please.’

A studious gentleman, with a careful but intelligent manner, entered.

‘Renzi, there’s no way I can think to break this to you without disappointment, therefore without further scruple, I have to introduce Mr Andrew Barnard, who is to be the permanent colonial secretary for Cape Colony.’

Turning white with shock, Renzi stood for a moment before awkwardly returning his bow.

‘Whitehall has seen fit to ignore my earnest recommendation on your behalf and is insisting on a professional civil servant in post. I’m – I’m truly sorry that this has been denied you, especially after your recent, er, experiences, of course.’

Seeing Renzi’s stricken features, he hastened on, ‘I’m sure Mr Barnard will be kind enough to desire that you remain in your quarters in the castle until your affairs are, um, more settled.’

‘That – that won’t be necessary,’ Renzi said faintly.

‘Ahem. I’d wish it were possible to offer you a lesser post in keeping with your undoubted talents but these have all been taken and I fear that the financials would frown on my creating a sinecure.’

‘I understand, sir.’

With the utmost dignity, he turned and left.

The bottle of Cape brandy was half gone, and Renzi stared bleakly out of the mullioned stern windows at the grand sight of the majestic mountain and the pretty town beneath it.

His eyes brimmed as he murmured brokenly, ‘Cecilia would have loved it here. Such a spirited creature! It must have been for her that Pliny wrote, “Ex Africa semper aliquid novi.”’

He sobbed just once, then looked up. Seeing Kydd hadn’t understood the Latin, he said distantly, ‘“There’s always something new out of Africa.”

‘And now this great land denied me.’

He buried his face in his hands.

‘There’s some who would rejoice it,’ Kydd said.

‘How so?’ Renzi said, raising his head.

‘Those who’ve missed having their friend to share adventures and triumphs.’

Renzi gave a wan smile. ‘But I’m destitute – no future, no—’

Kydd bit his lip, then spoke in rising irritation. ‘Nicholas, I find I’m to talk to you as I must to a foremast jack who’s clewed up before me at the captain’s table for the seventh time and needs a steer in life. I speak plainly, for you are my closest friend. You’re a man of colossal intellect and logic, who’s also the bravest person I know. How then can I put this? With all your talents, m’ friend, there’s one thing you lack that’s sorely needed.’

‘Oh? And what’s that?’ Renzi said defensively.

‘Damn it – a firm hand on the tiller o’ life!’ Kydd exploded. ‘A pox on it! Now, mark well what I have to say, Nicholas, for believe that I mean it! As God is my witness, do I mean what I say!’

Renzi was ashen-faced at his outburst.

‘You shall have your position back in L’Aurore but on one stipulation – which is the strictest possible condition for the post, which you refusing will see you put ashore directly, to languish in this destitution you seem to crave.’

At Renzi’s mute stupefaction, he continued more calmly: ‘We’re near to finishing our business at the Cape and must return to England soon. The condition is that the very instant we touch at Portsmouth you do post to Guildford and that very hour – not a minute longer, do you hear? – you do go down on your knees and beg Cecilia to marry you.’

‘What?’ Renzi gasped. ‘I can’t – she—’

‘She’ll be the one to say whether you’ll be wed or not – and never your poxy logical backing and filling until we’re all dizzy!’

‘But – but I haven’t the means,’ he said piteously.

‘Then find some! Take your courage in both hands and ask the woman!’

‘I – I . . .’

Kydd sighed heavily. ‘Good God! Do I have to make my meaning plainer? You shall never set foot in L’Aurore again without you swear this thing – that is my last word, damnit!’

In great emotion, Renzi finally nodded agreement.

‘What do you swear? Say it!’

‘That when our ship touches English soil . . . I . . . I will beg Cecilia’s hand. I’ll ask her . . . to marry me.’

Kydd helped himself to a stiff brandy. ‘She may turn you down as not worth the wait, o’ course.’

At the look on Renzi’s face, he hurried on, ‘As to means – I know you’d forswear charity from me but, Nicholas, there must be a way, damnit!’

He began pacing the cabin, then stopped.

‘Have you considered, well, that your publisher friend might be on the right tack? Should you not give the public what they crave, then later indulge yourself in your noble work? If it’s a novel they want, give ’em one. I’m persuaded you’ve one or two adventures to draw on as will set hearts to beating, keep feminine eyes to the page and even rouse out a hill o’ coin from the booksellers.’

Renzi was taken aback. ‘A novel?’

‘Yes!’

There was a long pause before he responded. ‘Well, um, I suppose I can see that there’s been one or two, er, instances in my life that may be of interest to others.’

The idea seemed to take hold and he brightened visibly. ‘But, in course, Cecilia must not hear of it – I will write under a pseudonym and you will vow never to tell anyone.’

‘I so promise.’

Renzi poured another brandy each and pondered for a space. ‘Hmm, how does – Portrait of an Adventurer by Il Giramondo sound to you?’

Kydd beamed – and the two friends roared with laughter and raised their glasses.