by Dudley Pope
His wife hated Curaçao; she swore the heat dried up her skin and accepting the French shrivelled her soul, and she was equally convinced that gin, good Dutch sweet gin, was the only medicine that could save her. So for the past four years she had drunk gin when others drank boiled water or wine. She had refused all attempts to send her back to the Netherlands because she hated the French even more than the Tropics. And because her family had in the distant past suffered dreadfully under the Duke of Alva’s soldiers, she walked out of the room if a Spaniard entered.
It did not make a governor’s life any easier, yet he had to admit it had some advantages. He had an excuse for having little to do socially with the Spanish—he never had to blame his wife; her dislike was well known. And, he reflected as Lausser ordered drinks to be brought, he must be one of the few governors of any nationality who cared little whether or not he would be dismissed from his post. He had saved some money; he would get his reward if the Stadtholder ever returned from exile in England. For the moment, though, the French seemed—well, omnipotent.
He took out his watch. “Lausser, don’t forget the orders to the forts.”
“I took the liberty of giving them earlier, Your Excellency.”
Van Someren nodded. Lausser was trustworthy and reliable, and he wished Maria was to marry him, instead of that sharp-eyed young naval officer, Jules, whose sole topics of conversation were republicanism, the latest French victories, and the villainy of William V, the Stadtholder of Holland, and his son, the Prince of Orange, for having fled to England.
For several years, van Someren reflected, deliberately forgetting his prospective son-in-law, he had not only kept his job as Governor, but kept his head on his shoulders (no mean feat for anyone having any dealings with the French government) because he had drifted with the current. No republican could accuse him of disloyalty to the Batavian Republic; yet when the Stadtholder eventually returned to the throne, Governor van Someren had made sure he had clean hands to show. Clean, that is, until now.
There was a faint popping in the distance. Lausser looked up significantly. Those bands of ruffians were close; the musket shots must be from loyal Dutch troops—he had all too few of them—or local people trying to stop the rogues looting their homes.
He picked up the gilt paperknife on his desk and balanced the blade on the index finger of his right hand. For several years he had been able to sit on the fence without finding it too hard to balance. Now, however, he was dangerously poised, as though paying for all those past years. He was the Dutch republican Governor yet at this moment he was likely to lose his governorship (and perhaps his life) to a republican rabble scrabbling their way across the arid island, walking and staggering, riding stubborn donkeys, drinking raw rum or gin, raping or robbing as the fancy took them. They sang (when they were not too drunk) all the old French revolutionary songs of nearly a decade ago; they behaved as though Curaçao was some newly captured British spice or sugar island, not part of the Batavian Republic. They were stirring up the Negroes, telling them to murder their masters in their beds, burn the crops, scatter the salt, break down the walls of the salt pans …
He took a new clay pipe from the rack on his desk and began to fill it with tobacco. What the devil could he do? The worst of these rogues were French. Admittedly privateersmen, but was it just the desire for loot that had set them off? There had been young Dutch revolutionaries only too eager to listen to them.
“How many of these ruffians do our latest patrols report, Lausser?”
“More than five hundred, Your Excellency. About two-thirds of them are from the French privateers—the ten here in Amsterdam.”
Five hundred. It sounded highly likely because most of the privateers carried extra men to act as prize crews. But why? Revolutionary zeal? Hardly—most privateersmen could barely read or write; they were concerned with loot, not loyalties. The rest must be local revolutionaries, disaffected Dutchmen. The usual rabble.
“What the devil do you think it is all about, Lausser?”
“Robbery, sir. The privateers had little luck against the British—far too many privateers hunting too few prizes. The British frigates are patrolling to the north—many more than usual. I heard that the shopkeepers here stopped credit for most of the privateers some two weeks ago, just before all this started, so they were out of provisions and spirits …”
“Oh? I heard nothing of that. A very short-sighted policy, stopping credit. About as sensible in these circumstances as handing over your purse to a highwayman and asking for change. I’m sure that’s what started off this—this insurrection.”
“But they had not paid their bills, sir.”
“Quite so,” van Someren said impatiently, irritated by Lausser’s lack of imagination, “but they aren’t going to make money lying here at anchor, unable to go to sea without provisions. The shopkeepers have always done well out of them up to now: the privateersmen spend freely enough when they do capture something. The prize cargoes are sold here for whatever the merchants will pay. The merchants should welcome them, not cut off credit.”
“But they were not paying their bills, sir,” Lausser repeated, as though shocked at the Governor’s more practical attitude.
“You can only threaten privateers when you have a frigate in the harbour, Lausser.”
“Well, sir, one is due.”
“I mean Dutch, not British,” van Someren said, smiling at his little joke. “In the meantime, we have to prepare our defences against our friends the privateers, thanks to the island’s shopkeepers, who may find that their shops will be looted …”
The very location of Amsterdam, which made it easy to defend from the sea, made it almost indefensible from attacks overland. The channel to the Schottegat, like a wide but short river leading from the sea to the inland lake, divided Amsterdam in half: on the east side was Punda, the Point, with the Governor’s residence overlooking the harbour entrance and waterfront, and defended by the Waterfort.
Otrabanda, “the other side,” was on the west and also had Riffort covering the entrance. But there were no defences covering either Punda or Otrabanda on the landward sides: the forts were no more than long gun platforms formed by wide stone sea walls, buttressed to seaward but open behind.
I can defend Amsterdam against my enemies, van Someren reflected, but I can’t defend it against my allies. With two hundred Dutch soldiers and a couple of Negro companies (who had just refused to fight against the French ruffians) he was at the mercy of the rabble. And, into the midst of it all, came a British frigate. Perhaps he should be thankful the Batavian Republic had no other enemies—for the time being, anyway.
“Your Excellency,” Lausser said, a formal note in his voice indicating that he considered what he was about to say was important, “ought the womenfolk to be sent to the forts for safety?”
The Governor held his clay pipe by the stem and tapped the desk with the bowl. “Safe from whom? That’s what I have to decide. If we are protecting them against an attack by the two British ships, then we should have them all here in the residence. But if we are protecting them against these drunken republican scoundrels, then perhaps they’d be better off in the forts. In fact, I’d be inclined to evacuate Otrabanda—after spiking the guns, of course—and bring everyone across to concentrate at Punda. And sink the ferries, of course.”
“Can we seize the privateers that are anchored in the channel, sir?”
“I can’t risk it. Allowing ten soldiers to take possession of each privateer (and that means they have to row out in their own boats) needs a hundred men, which is all I have for both forts: the other hundred out trying to slow down the republicans will not be back in time. If the privateersmen remaining in the ships put up a fight …”
A knock at the door brought Lausser to his feet and he took a letter from a servant. He glanced at the superscription and proffered it to the Governor, who shook his head and gestured to Lausser to open it. “It can’t be good news.”
&nb
sp; Lausser unfolded the paper—it was not sealed—and glanced over it. “From Captain Hartog, sir. The republicans—that’s what they are calling themselves, he says—are grouping on the main road half-way between Soto and Sint Willebrordus, about eleven miles from Amsterdam. He thinks that one man, or a committee, has just taken charge, so he expects them to advance much more quickly now. He is falling back on us but so far his casualties are light. He is deliberately conserving his men, he says.”
“Sensible fellow,” van Someren growled. “Dead men lying among the salt pans won’t help us. He understands that he’s just fighting a delaying action, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, sir: he seems to be quite successful!”
“Quite so, quite so. Now, about the women.”
Lausser knew this was the Governor’s way of asking his opinion, and he said: “Waterfort, sir. The republicans are the greatest danger, especially once they start looting shops and getting at the spirits. Keep the women in the residence until the last moment, then send them down to the fort.”
Van Someren nodded. There were perhaps fifty women involved: the rest had fled to friends owning plantation houses at the east end of the island many days ago, at the first sign of trouble, and he was thankful they had taken his advice. The fifty that remained were married to stubborn merchants who refused to have their household arrangements upset (even though in the end it might put the wives in great danger).
Finally the Governor made up his mind: “Very well, we’ll use Waterfort as the last resort. Tell the commander of Riffort—I always forget his name—to be prepared to spike the guns and join the garrison on Punda. They should bring their muskets and as much powder as they can carry, and pitch the rest of the powder into the sea.”
He tapped the desk with his pipe. “Yes, and get more water taken to Waterfort. With all those extra women—and their children, and probably their husbands—we might get short. Get as many casks as you can find filled and rolled out to the Point. Food, too.”
By now he was tapping to emphasize each word, and at “too” the pipe snapped. He looked at the stem which he was still holding. “You know, Lausser, we can trust our enemies, the British. Our damned French allies are the danger.”
“You can just see the entrance to Amsterdam, now, sir,” Southwick said. “From this angle the walls of the forts on each side took like a single big one. But the main part of the town—the Governor’s residence, Parliament, the market—is this side, which they call the Point. The channel cuts the town in half and leads to an inland lake called the Schottegat. And the bay at the entrance, such as it is, they call Saint Anna’s.”
“What guns do they have in the forts?” Ramage asked.
“Thirty in Waterfort on the Point, when I was last here, but it has three sides. Eighteen guns on the wall parallel with the coast, six on the first angled section facing south-south-west, and six more on the second, actually covering the entrance. The same guns in Riffort on Otrabanda, the fort on the west side. They’re probably twenty-four-pounders, but I’m not sure.”
“Sixty guns,” Ramage mused. “But not all of them can be trained on us at the same time?”
“No, sir. As we approach, the dozen guns on the two angled parts of Punda won’t bear. But all of those on Otrabanda will. About 48 altogether, I should reckon.”
“The same as the effective broadsides of two 74’s.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how wide is the channel inside the forts?”
“About two hundred yards.”
“So a ship entering has Waterfort on Punda one hundred yards to starboard and Riffort on Otrabanda a hundred yards to larboard.”
“Exactly, sir.”
Ramage imagined the captain of one of the Dutch guns standing beyond the recoil, trigger line in his hand, and sighting along the top of the barrel. The Calypso, sailing into Schottegat, would seem enormous, and with the steep-roofed buildings and the fort taking some of the wind she would be making perhaps four knots. The gun captain would give a couple of orders to train left or right—and, unless he was poorly trained or over-excited, he should be able to put a round shot or a round of grapeshot through whichever of the Calypso’s gun ports he chose. Or poke a round shot through the hull along the waterline like a seam-stress stitching the edge of a blanket.
Southwick was looking at him quizzically, his face covered with perspiration from the heat of the sun. “Not even on a dark night in pouring rain, sir,” he said, shaking his head.
Ramage grinned. “It’s a pity there’s never fog in these latitudes.”
The Master kept a straight face but he was relieved. Amsterdam was one of the most impossible ports to attack that he had ever seen, and, almost more important, the Dutch were tough fighters. You could panic a Spaniard and bluff a Frenchman, but a Dutchman—no, he was too like the British to do anything but fight man to man. Which wasn’t to say Mr Ramage wouldn’t attack the place if he felt like it, but the Dutch knew a British frigate and schooner were approaching because Mr Ramage had made no attempt to fly French colours, even though both ships were French-built and it would be easy to fool French privateers, let alone these mynheers. So the garrisons of the two forts would be ready; indeed, at this very moment, with the Calypso and La Créole now in sight of both, they would have their guns loaded and run out ready to fire; magazines would be unlocked and more cartridges and round shot would be ready … The guns could lay down an invisible barrier some two thousand yards offshore and anyone stepping over it would be smashed to pieces by twenty-four-pounder round shot by the time the range was down to a thousand yards.
Ramage once again raised his telescope and murmured to Southwick: “It isn’t often you see that flag—look over the two forts and that large building on the Point, the Governor’s residence, I suppose. The flag of the Batavian Republic.”
The French seemed to like renaming places. Genoa was now the Ligurian Republic, Holland the Batavian Republic, the Swiss were now inhabitants of the Helvetic Republic, while a group of Italian states round Bologna, Modena and Ferrara were now the Cisalpine Republic. From all accounts giving a new name was not the same as giving them their freedom …
Ramage turned to Aitken, who was the officer of the watch. “Pass at least two miles off Amsterdam,” he said. “We’re being nosy, not provocative.”
Half an hour later they could see right into Amsterdam, neatly cut in half by the channel. Not quite in half, Ramage realized; the main part was on the Punda side—the Governor’s residence, Parliament and most of the houses. On the other side, so quaintly called the same in Dutch, Otrabanda, it looked as though the merchants flourished. At the far end, where the small inland lake began, the privateers were lying at anchor. Aitken had counted nine, Southwick eight, the masthead lookouts ten, and Jackson and Orsini, sent up the mainmast at the rush with telescopes, confirmed that there were ten.
Southwick had been as puzzled as Ramage when Jackson had come down again and reported that most of the privateers looked as though they were laid up, or undergoing refits. There was no sign of sails; no squaresail yards were in sight. Nor, equally odd, was there any sign of activity on any of the privateers: except for two or three men standing at the rail of one of them, Jackson said, they seemed to be deserted.
Ramage had not known what to expect and for that reason had no plans. He turned to Aitken and said: “Continue running along the coast. The chart shows two or three bays where privateers could hide. Keep a sharp lookout—we might be able to surprise some of them at anchor.”
With that he went below to his cabin, glad of the shade. He sat down at his desk, reached up for the chart from the rack overhead, and spread it out in front of him. Ten privateers: that meant the Admiral’s information was correct: Amsterdam was being used as a privateers’ base. Ten privateers. But they were the only vessels in the harbour. Certainly they could have a dozen prizes anchored in that lake, out of sight, but those privateers looked as though they were laid up. Why should the sails h
ave been taken off? It was easy enough to do, but surprising. There might be a good sailmaker there in Amsterdam who was doing some major repairs on a single privateer’s sails—even making new ones, because the Trade winds were hard on sail cloth and the sun and showers rotted the stitching. Would all ten have their sails on shore in the sailmaker’s loft at the same time? No, there’d be no point: the sailmaker (at best a couple of men and three apprentices) could not work on ten suits of sails at once, and no privateer would risk having his sails on shore a day longer than necessary. He’d bring the sails over, wait for them to be repaired and take them back. If they were not on shore, then the sails certainly could be stowed below, out of the glare and heat of the sun and rain—not that it rained much on these islands: they existed only because there were wells providing fresh water.
Was it likely, he asked himself, that only two or three privateersmen would come on deck to watch a British frigate and schooner sail across the harbour entrance—something that happened perhaps once in three or four months? Two or three out of—well, more than five hundred men? Where were the rest of them? Some could be on shore, filling water casks or collecting provisions from the chandlers. A few dozen might be out at the salt pans, filling carts or bags with salt to preserve meat. Some might be in the brothels—though men and women preferred a siesta at this time of day. But two or three men … The privateers were not laid up for lack of targets, surely? He thought of the 24 dead in the Tranquil, murdered by the crew of the Nuestra Señora de Antigua.
The Marine sentry at the door called out that Mr Southwick wished to see him.
The Master looked worried and without any preamble said: “We’re losing a lot of ground to leeward, sir. With these light winds, and the west-going current, it’ll take us a long time to beat back to Amsterdam … Leastways, I’m reckoning you want to stay close to Saint Anna’s Bay …”