Conquest

by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd’s little fleet of a single frigate and harmless transports, however, were waiting for a sign. It came in the darkness at a little after two in the morning. Under easy sail well offshore, they felt the wind die to a whisper and then, an hour before dawn, it strengthened – from the south-west.

  Signal lanthorns were hung in L’Aurore’s rigging and sail was set for the north. When day broke, they were back in the lee of Robben Island with the invading force and a very different prospect.

  The seas were now subdued and the wind, backing yet further into its accustomed summer direction, was no longer a threat. The landing was on.

  Brigadier General Ferguson returned from the beaches in fine spirits: he had landed his scouts, who had sighted lookouts but quickly determined that there were no enemy troops in strength lurking under cover behind the sand dunes.

  Baird gave his orders for an embarkation. It was going to be a race against time: there could be no doubt now that the landing was taking place and the Dutch must be rushing troops to meet the threat. Only if they could get his own men ashore in time would they have a chance.

  While soldiers boarded their boats once again, L’Aurore and Leda manoeuvred to take their bombardment positions each side of the sea-lane the boats would use, anchored both fore and aft and with the springs attached to the cables that would allow the whole ship to be oriented to lay down fire as requested.

  At the head of the sea-lane, Diadem was ready with her big guns while the other two 64s lay defensively to seaward and the remainder ranged up and down the shoreline.

  Before noon the stage was set and the signal was given. Galvanised into motion, the boats began the fearful passage to the beaches under a hot sun. But from their lofty height lookouts had spied a disturbing turn of events. There had been no time for the Dutch to march up to confront the landing but a commando of the burgher cavalry had been spotted: their horses had enabled them to be quickly on the scene and now they would be taking position in unknown numbers up and down the dunes to blaze fire into the helpless boats.

  High in the tops of L’Aurore, sharp-eyed midshipmen relayed bearings to the gun-deck and her guns opened up in a slam of sound. A storm of iron tore into the dunes, sending up high gouts of sand and scattered clods all along the dune crests. When Leda joined in, the fire intensified into a continual bombardment that numbed the senses.

  It was a hideous experience for the Dutch, but it gave heart to the seamen, straining in their heroic dash at the oars, and the soldiers sitting helplessly. War pennons fluttered bravely from some, the legendary colours to plant on the beach as their rallying point. From others, kilted pipers nobly played their defiance, and in all, the feathered bonnets and splash of scarlet of the famed regiments of Scotland.

  When the boats reached the beach it would be another matter. The cannonade must lift and then they would be on their own. All would then turn on whether the enemy had fled or merely taken cover to rise again.

  As they neared the shore Kydd ordered his guns silent. At first nothing stirred among the dunes. Then a tell-tale puff of white smoke rose, and another, until a regular fire was coming from up and down the beach. These were the heroes among the enemy who had not abandoned their post and were going to dispute the landing – but thankfully the ominous concussion of a field gun charged with grapeshot, which could quickly turn the landing into a bloodbath, was absent.

  He watched as the many boats began to converge on the assault beach between the two rock ledges in a congested surge; if they could land together they stood a better chance but this was at the cost of fatal crowding – over to the left a boat slewed sideways as it took a rock. Under the impetus of the surf it rose and fell, capsizing instantly and throwing the heavily encumbered soldiers of the 93rd into the depths. Kydd craned to look, but of the forty-odd in the boat there were only three or four heads in the water, the rest choking out their last moments of life beneath the sparkling green sea.

  The first boat grounded, soldiers clambering out awkwardly in their haste. Making the beach, an officer turned to gesture imperiously for his standard. Not far behind the green-feathered light infantry, stumbling at first in the soft sand, began moving out, some firing from the kneel and others pressing on up the beach.

  They were taking casualties; men were dropping. An officer spun and fell – Kydd thought he recognised the fiery Pack – but troops were spilling ashore fast and the musket fire from the dunes began to slacken.

  The experienced Highlanders of the 71st knew their business. Picked squads of agile light companies trotted up and down the beach and disappeared into the sand-hills. A sizeable company assembled in extended order and, muskets at the port, stormed inland.

  More boats crowded ashore; now field equipment was being landed, portable howitzers, light field-pieces, even horses, as all hostile fire was silenced. Knots of men gathered at the standards waiting for orders, while an improvised signal mast let fly the hoist that declared the beachhead secure. Against all probability, the expedition had seized a foothold on the shores of Africa.

  Somewhere out of sight beyond the fringing dunes, defensive lines were being set up, pickets told off and troops placed in readiness for the expected counter-attack. A determined strike could see them in serious trouble for their tenuous hold must urgently be translated to real strength – stores of all kinds, rations, ammunition, water in the keg: all had to be landed to make this possible.

  Word came that a strong body of troops had been seen issuing from the castle, joined by others further along in what could only be the deploying of an army, but it was too late in the afternoon to fear action that day and the vital stores continued to flood ashore.

  Aboard L’Aurore there was great satisfaction. They had done their part and the Army had done theirs. The British flag was well and truly planted ashore, and in the near future there would be a bloody battlefield where the Dutch would have to make their stand against the invaders.

  The ship had performed creditably and would still have a part to play in support, but for now Kydd contented himself with reverting to single anchor, the cable buoyed for quick release. They were ready for any orders – but when they came they were completely unexpected: Kydd was to attach himself to the general’s staff as naval liaison.

  He was to land with a lieutenant of signals set up to communicate with his ship, which, with the shallowest draught, had been chosen to act as close-in gunfire support, a fearsome mobile battery. The main coastal road ran close to the foreshore and it took little imagination to conceive of the havoc that would be inflicted by a broadside against columns of troops marching up in reinforcement. Although he would do his duty ashore, Kydd did not relish being out of his ship – the French squadrons could still make an appearance – but at least with L’Aurore so close he could be back aboard quickly.

  ‘Mr Bowden!’ he called.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Find yourself a likely midshipman and two hands – you’re going a-signalling in Africa!’ The details of how communications would be maintained he would leave as an exercise for the young man to present later.

  What should a naval captain wear at a campaign headquarters on the field of battle? If the ancestral portraits he had seen were anything to go by, then only the most ornate full dress would do. Uneasily he remembered his experiences with the Army ashore. As a young lieutenant in Menorca, seconded to the land forces, he had returned on board his ship, victorious but hopelessly tattered and dusty, in stark contrast to the imposing Major General Paget, whose turn-out had always been impeccable.

  ‘Tysoe!’ He summoned his valet. ‘I’m to join the Army for a spell. Pray lay out some kit.’

  The sun was sinking out to sea in glorious golds and reds when he boarded his barge and was taken ashore with a single sea-chest. The summer evening wafted alien scents to him as he stood on the beach waiting for his escort. Harsh chittering and hidden rustling among the dune grasses spoke of the mystery and danger of the great continent, but in
a way he felt disappointed: this was nothing like the steaming jungle of his imagination.

  ‘Sah!’ A splendid-looking sergeant major saluted and a pair of orderlies hefted the chest. They climbed into the dunes and found the path. Off the beach the roar of the surf turned to a muffled boom, and away from the sea breeze, the air became close and hot. They passed chains of soldiers handing along stores, and burial parties, stripped to the waist, interring the dead where they had fallen.

  Away in the distance a trumpet brayed, shouted orders faintly on the air. Kydd was conscious of the soldiers panting behind with his chest for it was heavy going in the soft sand. They left the dunes and were crossing a field of greens, sadly trampled and obviously belonging to the whitewashed farm with thatched roof ahead.

  Kydd felt resentment that Tysoe had insisted on full undress uniform and sword. In his formal coat and large bicorne fashionably over his nose he was beginning to itch and sweat; on the open battlefield in the full heat of day it would be unendurable.

  With much stamping of feet and crashing of muskets his presence at the farm was recognised and he was greeted by an affable major. It seemed he was now at Baird’s headquarters and was most welcome.

  Inside, the comfortably worn flagstones and thick walls held a surprising cool and Baird came to greet him. ‘A fine show by the Navy!’ he grunted. ‘Their lordships shall certainly hear of my approbation of their conduct this day, Captain!’

  Seeing the major and general-officer-commanding faultlessly attired in the ceremonials of a Highland regiment, Kydd had now to be grateful for Tysoe’s insistence in the matter of dress.

  ‘You’ll join us at supper?’

  Kydd bowed politely and was shown into a cosy room, obviously the farmer’s pride, with its quaint Dutch furniture and tableware on display in the dresser racks. Now it was a senior officers’ mess, and round the table, jovial colonels and brigadiers sat and chatted expansively about the day’s events.

  ‘A dram wi’ ye!’ said the red-faced MacDonald, Lord of the Isles and colonel of the 24th Regiment of Foot, handing Kydd a glass. The golden sparkle was the best malt whisky and quickly set him aglow.

  ‘A right true drop!’

  ‘Och, as it’s a Speyside out o’ yon Duncan Knockdunder’s casks,’ MacDonald admitted smugly. There was movement in the dark outside – a massive bulk loomed against the window. MacDonald beckoned and the door opened.

  An enormous figure in kilt and feathered bonnet stepped into the bright candlelight holding himself with intense pride. It was the pipe major of the 71st, his bagpipes at the ready, the light glittering on his elaborate accoutrements.

  The conversation died and the piper looked at Baird, who glanced about him. ‘A Pibroch!’ came a cry. It met with instant acclamation and a grey-haired colonel called across, ‘“The Rout o’ Glenfruin”!’

  Baird nodded his approval. In the confined space the squeal and drone of the pipes overwhelmed the senses but their barbaric splendour was deeply stirring. The martial wail set Kydd’s blood racing. Would the man be leading his clan into battle on the morrow? How could any not be moved to deeds of valour by such a sound?

  Supper was plain. While common soldiers were out gathering wood for cooking fires to boil their salt beef to gnaw with their biscuits, their general was not about to insist on the formalities. Wine was conspicuous by its absence and there was no napery – but the talk was all of the coming day.

  Three terrified Hottentot soldiers had been captured. They had readily shared all they knew: that they came from a large hidden encampment before the Riet Vlei, a marshy area to the south, and that General Janssens was at this moment with his army marching north at speed in the darkness to confront them the next day.

  At one point a diffident lieutenant reported: a determined sweep by scouts had secured eight more horses and a picture of the enemy’s forward positions. It could only have been acquired the hard way – in the blackness of the night, stealthily creeping about in the African bush with all its terrors, keyed up for a sudden challenge from an outpost, then a stumbling flight back into the anonymous dark.

  They had established that there was a light cavalry position at another farmhouse not far away beyond the ridge and other mounted vedettes in a line to the south. Further, fires had been observed on Blaauwberg, the massive bulk of blue-grey bluffs Kydd had seen from the sea. These would be lookouts in an impregnable situation that would report their every movement when battle was joined.

  The foe was closing in, but there was no nervousness that Kydd could detect, just the same brotherly laughter and concern as in a naval wardroom, the precious feeling that was only to be found in a company whose lives the next day would be in each other’s hands.

  ‘Gentlemen! Be so good as to gather about me,’ Baird announced unexpectedly. An aide passed him a large map, which he smoothed on the table. Two stands of candles were brought near. Their light caught the officers from beneath as they crowded around, their grave expressions a sombre acceptance of what lay ahead.

  ‘My plans for the day.’ An expectant silence descended. ‘I won’t pretend we’re in a favourable position – far from it. No cavalry, just a few guns, and against us everything the Dutch care to bring to bear.’

  He paused, then spoke in measured tones. ‘However, this is no new circumstance for Highlanders and I place my trust completely in their qualities of soldierly ardour and unflinching bravery.’

  Grunts of appreciation came but there was no easing in the unblinking stares.

  ‘Tomorrow we shall be taking the initiative. I now know General Janssens – who is no dilettante – is forming up in line in the plain beyond Blaauwberg. He’s discovered we have no cavalry and is extending his force to dominate the road to Cape Town.

  ‘In his centre will be his guns – how many I know not, nor his numbers. What I do know is that the French are wholeheartedly with him, both the reinforcements we know of and apparently some hundreds from a privateer the Navy ran on the rocks.’

  Kydd started guiltily, but there was no way he could have landed and pursued them in that hostile country.

  ‘Therefore this shall be an infantry battle, save for our few guns, and all objectives must be taken by storm and main force. I shall attack in column with two brigades, the First on the left, consisting of the Seventy-first, Seventy-second and Ninety-third regiments; the Second on the right, with the Twenty-fourth, Fifty-ninth and Eighty-third. When we are before the enemy, we shall deploy in line. Questions?’

  Hazily, Kydd understood that they were advancing with a minimum front while the Dutch artillery was in action and when in musket range would open up to full width opposite the enemy.

  ‘We do have some guns, sir?’ came from one officer.

  ‘Six six-pounders and only two small howitzers. I’m at a loss to know how these can be termed a battering train if it comes to a siege. Nevertheless, I’ll point out, if I may, that in this, as in so much other, the Navy is coming to our aid. In the absence of horses, and to release soldiers for duty, they are landing a Sea Battalion whose duty it will be to man-haul the pieces into action and keep up a supply of cannon-balls and powder.’

  It was the first Kydd had heard of it but he recognised Popham’s style, a vigorous response to a need. His own orders in respect of the roving battery that was L’Aurore had been properly acted upon. But would his part in the next day’s events be as a spectator or would he be fighting for his life as they were overrun by those Dutch, Malays, Hottentots and Waldeckers?

  He sat quietly, listening as the details were laid out. In all his experience he’d never been in a formal clash-at-arms between armies – Acre didn’t count and he’d been away in a sideshow at the final defeat of Napoleon’s army in Egypt. Did the opposing armies perform a courtly salute, a displaying of colours in much the same way as men-o’-war did before opening fire? If nothing else, tomorrow would be an interesting day for a sailor.

  The discussion concluded tidily, formal written orde
rs were issued and suddenly there was no more to be done. A toast to the health of Colonel Pack, who had indeed taken a bullet on the landing beach, and a final one to His Majesty, and it was time to retire.

  Kydd found it hard to sleep in the hot dimness, smelling the reek of army canvas preservative. The dead feel of the earth under his campaign cot instead of the gentle heave of his ship was unnatural and the strange night sounds of the African bush – any one of which could have been the enemy closing in – were disquieting.

  Well before dawn the camp was astir. After watch-keeping at sea Kydd was untroubled by the hour – it was rather what it implied: they were readying themselves for battle, and the first moves would be theirs.

  He could sense the tension. The men were taking their breakfast quietly, his own brought by a stolid redcoat, who waited while he finished and then left noiselessly. He stayed where he was until first light stole in and a distant trumpeter played an elaborate air to be taken up on all sides. Shouted commands mingled. He heard the rush of feet and the occasional whinny of a horse on the cool morning air – and then massed drummers began a thunderous tattoo. It was the call to arms.

  He emerged from the tent to see the battalions forming up in a complex pattern, the nearer column being dressed off by sergeant majors as if on a parade-ground, the other more distant, marching in file and then line, miraculously achieving a stronger cohesion at every manoeuvre.

  A bewildering number of men were urgently about their business, quite ignoring why a naval captain should be wandering about – and then he heard a sound so out of place but so familiar he shook his head in bemusement: the clean shrill of a boatswain’s pipe sounding the ‘Tail on fall’, the demand for seamen to take up a tackle line.