Conquest

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘From intelligence I have received so far we have a fair idea of what opposes us. First, there are the Dutch regulars. They garrison the castle and man the many batteries around the Cape. In addition to grenadiers and fusiliers, they maintain six companies of horse artillery deploying six-pounders together with foot artillery and dragoons.

  ‘As well as regulars, the Dutch command a battalion of Waldeckers, well-paid Westphalian and Hesse German mercenaries. Then there is the Java Foot Artillery, Malay slaves who have bought their freedom by enlisting. And also the Kaapsche Jägers – a line regiment of sharpshooters equipped with accurate rifles who will no doubt harry us as skirmishers on the flanks.

  ‘For cavalry they have what they term a “mounted commando” of light dragoons. These are irregulars but a formidable foe. Raised locally from the Boer country-folk, they fight for their land and their homes, and although individualists come on like tigers, it’s said their favoured method of charge is firing their carbines from horseback and other tricks.’

  There were comradely chuckles of amusement at this evidence of rank indiscipline but Baird cut through it: ‘Be sure of it, the moment our force is sighted, a chain of signal cannon will send an alarm to the interior and this “burgher cavalry” will come swarming upon us.’

  Kydd hadn’t any idea what a Boer was but there was no doubting Baird’s deadly seriousness. The general continued, ‘And, of course, there are the Pandours – and not to be despised, I’m persuaded. They are fine marksmen, locally raised men of colour. The Dutch call ’em the Hottentot Light Infantry and we shall meet at least a regiment of them in the field.’

  An older colonel shifted in his seat. ‘Sir, we have heard nothing of French reinforcement. Captain Kydd reported a large transport at anchor and we can only infer that there’s—’

  ‘I know nothing of recent accessions to strength. At the least there are some hundreds, possibly a thousand of Bonaparte’s troops or marines. But we should not overlook the fact that they are not an organic part of the Dutch Army and, new arrived, may not fit well into their command structure. Nevertheless, we shall face them as we do the rest – as British soldiers!’

  As stout murmurs of agreement went around the table, Honyman, captain of Leda, leaned across to Kydd and whispered, ‘Be damned to all this battlefield gabble – it’s getting ’em ashore I’m concerned with. Boats? Under fire? A night landing?’

  Baird’s expression did not ease as he picked up his thread. ‘So, on to my plan. I’ve considered it well. With our forces as they are, we cannot contemplate a frontal assault on the town for I’ve no siege engines of any kind.

  ‘An attack overland from False Bay? I’ve been advised by the Navy’ – Popham nodded gravely – ‘that in view of the reigning winds in summer being in the south-east this also cannot be in contemplation.

  ‘Then a surprise landing behind the town, say at Camps Bay? There’s a pass just above at Kloofnek leading between the Lion’s Head and Table Mountain that could see us massing above for a descent on their unprotected rear. But again I’m cautioned by the Navy that, given the tight constraints of the landing place, insufficient men might disembark before the enemy retaliates.’

  He paused for effect. ‘So! What is left to me is a massed landing by boat. At a place far enough from the fixed defences to allow us a chance to establish a foothold but not too far away that the enemy has time to prepare in depth.

  ‘Gentlemen, there is such a place, no more than fifteen, eighteen miles from the centre of Cape Town. Er, if you’d kindly assist me . . .’ Two officers took a corner each of the map and held it up for all to see.

  ‘Now, as you may observe, Table Mountain is at their backs. Where the ground levels to the north we have the castle. Beyond the castle is a fort, and past that – nothing. A ten-mile length of beach up to and past Robben Island here. Now, there is a coast road, a contemptible thing that will take an ox-wagon or four men abreast, not enough to send troops in haste.

  ‘Losperd’s Bay is here, at the end of the beach, past the island. And, gentlemen, this is where we go in.’

  Military and naval heads craned forward together to peer at the map. ‘I’m supposing we can get our troops landed before the Dutch can reach us. We form up and accept battle, driving them back on the town.’

  He looked back sharply at a muffled ‘Without guns, without cavalry . . .’ but continued grimly, ‘I’m only too well aware that an opposed landing may be bloody but I’m sending in the smaller navy ships to cannonade the landing place as the boats approach.’

  Kydd knew full well who this would be, and the problems he and Leda must face. Were they to present their broadsides to the enemy, cutting across the path of the boats, or fire over their heads at fearful risk to them with rolling seas on the beam? And who would be there to help the soldiers and their kit disembark on an open beach? And what of the risk to the ship? Enemy guns lined up on solid ground could hardly miss, and a damaged ship out of control would be a wreck in a short time, wreaking chaos.

  Baird’s iron gaze moved slowly around the table. Then he said, ‘I will not accept anything except that we are ready to invest the castle within a very short number of days. Else we stand exposed to any forces the enemy summons. I shall make my meaning clearer, gentlemen. We move on the Dutch tomorrow.’

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  It was as if a sign had been given: no sooner had they returned to their ships than the wind veered from the usual south-easterly directly for their objective. It settled to a broad westerly during the night and increased to a respectable briskness.

  In the dawn’s light the little armada saw the mountains of the Cape ahead and set their course for the climactic act of the drama. Within hours they had cast anchor in fifteen fathoms just to the north of the grey-green anonymity of Robben Island, two miles offshore from the landing place.

  Kydd glanced over to the mainland and took in a low, flat coastline, a long beach ending in a twist of shoreline and a knot of dark rocks. Away in the distance was the grand sight of Table Mountain, at this angle picturesque and magnificent. A mile or so inland a blue-grey pair of hills rose abruptly from the flat plains, and in the far distance a light-grey craggy mountain range limned the horizon.

  And not a sign of the enemy! Had they achieved the surprise they so much needed? The looming of an invasion fleet at their very doorstep must surely be causing dismay and alarm among the Dutch.

  There was little time to ponder, however, for the flagship immediately summoned all commanders for a last conference before the assault was unleashed.

  Kydd boarded Diadem, feeling the excitement and tension. On her quarterdeck a piper in kilt and bonnet stood at the ready.

  In the great cabin Baird waited calmly for the meeting to come to order. Then he said briskly, ‘It seems we have our wish, gentlemen. I propose to dispense with preliminaries and proceed without delay.’

  Fierce grins showed among the army officers: the endless weeks at sea had been a sore trial for them but now there would be action at last.

  ‘We begin embarking in the boats immediately. These will depart on my command for Losperd’s Bay. This is a clearly defined stretch of sand between two points of rock. To occupy the dunes immediately inland is our first objective. Commodore?’

  Popham’s glance took in all the naval captains. ‘Offshore bombardment will be by Diadem’s thirty-two-pounders, firing over the heads of the boats going in. Leda and L’Aurore will go to two anchors as close to the shore as practical and pass springs for adjustment of aim. Their positioning will be to either side of Losperd’s Bay. A continuous fire will be maintained before and, as signalled, after the landing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Baird said. ‘It will keep the enemy tolerably entertained, I believe. I shall remind you again – the rapid establishing of a foothold is critical to our success. We must move before the foe wakes to his situation.’

  Kydd felt muffled thumps and scrapes through the deck, which he r
ecognised as boats coming alongside in the brisk seas. The embarkation was beginning even as they sat.

  ‘Nevertheless, as a prudent commander I will make a last reconnaissance. Brigadier General Ferguson has claimed that honour for himself but begs he might be accompanied by a senior naval officer.’

  Ferguson, a bewhiskered Highlander, red of face but with piercing and intelligent eyes, acknowledged the table and Popham nodded pleasantly. ‘It can be arranged. A ship’s pinnace under sail will be adequate to your purpose, which Captain Kydd, I’m sure, will be delighted to command.’

  While L’Aurore’s pinnace was readied Kydd and Ferguson watched the embarkation. The same brisk westerly that had sped them to Diadem had produced a sizeable swell and white wave-crests, and the soldiers with their equipment were finding it difficult to get aboard.

  Every boat was being pressed into service: big launches seating sixty soldiers, with twenty oarsmen, through to barges and cutters crowded up to the larger ships. The troops were assembled on deck by file, their kit beside them. As well as their muskets and bayonets, each man had to carry sixty rounds of ball cartridge, spare flints and haversack rations for three days.

  They climbed into the bucking craft awkwardly, trying to keep in the centreline away from the seamen at the oars and looking at the hissing seas nervously. The boats backed off and joined the assembling armada.

  L’Aurore’s pinnace came alongside, cutter-rigged with a mainsail boom and long bowsprit. Kydd took the tiller, with Stirk at the main-sheets and Poulden with Doud forward. Ferguson boarded, sensibly clad in a plain uniform and accompanied by two blank-faced soldiers.

  ‘Shove off,’ Kydd ordered, and the boat swung out of the lee of the 64, catching the westerly squarely. Under a single-reefed main they surged towards the shore on the backs of the combers.

  ‘A mite lively,’ the major general said peevishly, as the pinnace took a foaming crest over the gunwale, soaking his breeches. The boisterous seas grew steeper as they felt the shallowing seabed rise under them.

  Kydd held his tongue. This was a lightly manned boat under fast sail – he feared how it would be for deeply laden craft under oars.

  They approached the beach, Ferguson leaning forward in his eagerness to sight ashore. ‘Up ’n’ down, if you please,’ he rapped. Kydd chose his moment, then put down the tiller.

  Broadside to the waves, the boat rolled wickedly, bringing cries of alarm from the soldiers, but Ferguson held on grimly as they wallowed and bucketed along. With the wind abeam, the boat was canted higher on the weather side, which served to keep the worst seas at bay, bobbing skyward as a massive swell drove beneath and then, with a precipitous lurch, dropping dizzily as the wave charged inshore.

  They went about after half a mile and did a pass further up the coast. There was no gunfire or sudden movement, and Ferguson abruptly turned to Kydd. ‘Put these men on the land, sir.’

  The two soldiers, hanging on for their lives, looked back in dismay and Kydd tried to smile encouragingly, despite his misgivings. ‘Poulden, ready the oars. I’ll bear up into the wind and at that instant brail the main, let fly fore-sheets and then out oars.’

  Sail doused, it was nearly impossible to keep head to sea. The seething combers met the bow, flinging it skyward to crunch back at an awkward angle, which frantic work at the oars could only just meet. Kydd could see that even if he brought the boat to land through the surf they would never get off again, given this force of wind and sea.

  ‘Set the fores’l ’n’ jib!’ he roared, above the thunder of the waves. They clawed off, every man soaked and Doud frantically bailing over the side. ‘We can’t make it, sir!’ Kydd bawled, at the hunched-over figure of the general.

  Ferguson looked up and met his eyes. If a well-found ship’s pinnace could not get through to the shore, then sending in heavily laden, crowded assault boats would risk catastrophe. ‘No. I’ve seen enough. We return.’

  At the flagship further out, the seas gave little hint of their bull-rampaging power at the shoreline. ‘Sir, it’s my firm opinion they’ll never get on shore in this,’ Ferguson told Baird urgently, as the general came up to meet the returning party. ‘We must not attempt it.’

  Baird looked at him as if he were demented. ‘Not proceed? Sir, by your own report the enemy has not reached the landing place. You’re proposing I suspend operations, recall the boats and lie in idleness while the enemy finds time to complete his deployment?’

  To shoreward of Diadem the boats were assembling in concourse for the line of assault, bobbing and sliding on the swell and perilously full of soldiery; the embarking was near complete.

  The tension on the quarterdeck was electric.

  ‘Sir! Might I . . . ?’ Kydd interposed, unsure of the proper form for contradicting a commander-in-chief.

  ‘Captain?’

  ‘I fear General Ferguson is right. These beaches are open to the full force of the Atlantic. Our seamen will try their best but with all those soldiers on board . . . That is to say, with their oars they’ll need . . .’ He trailed off at Baird’s thunderous expression.

  ‘You’re trying to say the Navy can’t find a way to land my men on an unopposed shore?’ Baird said, with biting savagery. ‘That a vital strategic move against the enemy, devised and planned by His Majesty’s War Council in Whitehall, is to be overborne by – by you, sir?’

  Despite his vitriol, Kydd felt for the man – with all his detailed plans and hopes, he now had an impossible choice: to go ahead and risk disaster before his very eyes or wait for someone to tell him that he could go – and take responsibility when he was bloodily and decisively beaten on the beaches by a prepared enemy.

  ‘Er, may the commodore and I consult, sir?’ Kydd said evenly, seeing Popham arriving on the quarterdeck.

  At Baird’s grunt, he motioned Popham aside. ‘Sir, the conditions are insupportable. This westerly has kicked up a long swell that’s pounding the sand. No boat can live in that surf. You must . . .’

  The commodore’s brow creased and he paused before he replied. ‘I see, Mr Kydd. You will appreciate, however, that this cannot be received by the commander-in-chief with anything but resentment and more than a trifle of anxiety but I will speak with him.’

  He approached the fuming general and took him by the arm. ‘David, I really do feel we must discuss this further. Shall we go below?’

  A little later Popham returned alone. ‘Well, now. The general has a pretty dilemma but I flatter myself we have a naval plan that shall see him mollified.’

  Kydd’s spirits rose. ‘Then how shall we get them ashore, sir?’ That was the nub, but the commodore probably had ideas such as pontoons on a line through the breakers or—

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Consider. We had notions of landing here because we had a chance of getting ’em ashore and established before the enemy had time to advance up the coast to contest the landing. Now he has the time. Therefore do you not think that our primary purpose is to dissuade him from such a course? To remain where he is and allow us to land here when the weather improves?’

  Popham’s look of smug superiority irked Kydd, but he would play the game. This was the man who’d devised a radically new system of signals that had been adopted by the whole Navy and whom he’d witnessed devise an ingenious solution for delivering Fulton’s torpedoes when his submarine was seen as not practical.

  ‘Er, a feint as will draw his attention away?’

  ‘Umm?’

  It was beginning to come. He remembered Baird’s reasoning behind his decision to land in this particular location. ‘Make a motion in his rear, say Camps Bay, as will persuade him we intend to cross, um, Kluffnick Pass—’

  ‘Kloofnek.’

  ‘– to fall on him from behind. In this way he’ll not want to be caught with his army straggling out in the open if there’s a chance we’ll strike at his centre.’

  ‘Very good. Pray continue.’

  Of cour
se! That was the solution. ‘So we are giving out that the Losperd’s Bay show with boats is merely by way of enticing him out – and the real landing is at Camps Bay.’

  ‘Bravo!’ Popham said. ‘Their field commander and governor, General Janssens, is a wily bird. He may or may not fall for it, but at the very least he’ll hesitate before committing his troops this far out from the town and castle.’

  At a hurriedly reconvened council-of-war Baird wasted no time. ‘Gentlemen, I’ve given orders that the landing is not to proceed.’

  A dismayed hubbub died away at his calm smile. ‘Instead we turn the delay to our advantage. I’m asking Commodore Popham to make a flourish at Camps Bay for the purpose of getting General Janssens to think again of where the landing will be taking place. No army commander would dare to be caught with his column of advance strung out and a landing in his rear.’

  There were murmurs of appreciation and Popham avoided Kydd’s eye. ‘Nevertheless, I’m to take precautions, I believe. It’s my desire to set troops on the shores of Africa and to this end I’m dispatching General Beresford with the Twentieth Regiment of Dragoons to the closest sheltered harbour, which is Saldanha Bay in the north. Having established a presence there, he will march down to meet us at the landing or alternatively hold a position. Any questions?’

  Kydd had none, but Saldanha Bay, while less than a day’s sail away for a ship, was a march of seventy miles across African wilderness for soldiers weakened by the voyage. If the weather stayed from the west and the main landing was impossible, on arrival they would be cut to pieces while he and the others looked on helplessly.

  Any watcher from the dunes would have seen, in the last of the daylight, first a frigate and then other ships detach from the invasion fleet one by one and slip south, in full view, past the castle with the colours of the Batavian Republic and continuing by Cape Town itself, before rounding the point out of sight as a sunset blazed in from the sea. The conclusion would hopefully have been that the British were readying for a dawn assault – and the Dutch commander could congratulate himself for not falling for the gesture at Losperd’s Bay: his forces were still in place and fully capable of defending the town.