Conquest

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘They’ll be sore tired. Issue ’em with rum and biscuit after they’ve had their fill of water and we’ll wait to see what the Navy can do to stir up Janssens’s camp with their cannon. He’s yet to receive his reinforcements from inland and I’ve a suspicion we’ll have a tight run of it when he does.’

  Kydd knew Bowden would have shifted the signal post down the beach to keep with the tide of battle and would let him know anything of significance. In fact the bombardment would be well under way by now, just as the first of the fleeing army were streaming in. He fancied he could hear the faraway mutter and grumble of the guns of his ship on the still, fetid air.

  There was desultory conversation. This farmhouse did not have the cool tiled floor of the other and it was hot and close. Kydd felt an urge to get outside, but not far away, near the waterhole, a field surgeon’s tent had been erected and carts of wounded were arriving, their cries piercing the air. He stayed where he was.

  Time dragged. Then a thud of hoofs and a breathless dispatch rider appeared at the doorway. Baird looked up in sudden interest.

  ‘General, sir!’ the officer acknowledged, extracting a message, which he carried over to Kydd.

  It was in Bowden’s young, bold hand. Hurried but precise, it detailed a landing – an unauthorised but successful assault by the Royal Marines under cover of L’Aurore’s bombardment not far from Riet Vlei. Popham must have stripped every ship in the fleet to find enough marines to send in but the bold initiative was a brilliant stroke.

  It seemed they had brought a small gun with them, which they had set up atop the dunes and were firing directly into the encampment. A hurried defence had been improvised but had been beaten back by the marines. At the time of writing, his camp denied him, Janssens was attempting a rally further inland.

  Baird met the news with barely concealed delight. ‘He’ll have to act boldly if he’s to preserve his army,’ he said gruffly, ‘but Janssens is a wily old bird. Let’s just see what happens.’

  Barely an hour later another rider brought a message from scouts out to the south-east. There was no doubting it: the whole Dutch army was on the move. But not to strike back at the weary British – puzzlingly, they were marching at right angles away to the dry, wild country leading to the interior.

  ‘That will do,’ Baird said crisply. ‘We advance and occupy Riet Vlei. Gentlemen, we’ll sleep in beds tonight. I’m to set up headquarters where the Dutch commander did, I believe.’

  The farm buildings at Riet Vlei were extensive and comfortable. In the glory of a setting sun, camp was established and foraging parties fanned out. As the evening drew in, a most extraordinary odour began to hang on the air. It was a space before Kydd could identify it: roast lamb! For the first time in many weeks they were to be granted fresh meat.

  Later, replete, and grateful for the absent farmer’s taste in wines, the officers pondered the enemy’s next moves.

  ‘Then he’s running, sir?’

  ‘No, Colonel,’ Baird said thoughtfully. ‘But I fear we’ll hear more of Mr Janssens. No – he’s heading for the Tygerbergs no more than five miles or so off, a thousand feet high and steep. My wager is that he’s to throw up a redoubt there while he gathers strength.’

  ‘Ah – there we have our dilemma, do we not, sir?’ another interjected. ‘Should we move on Cape Town, he lies in our rear and we cannot face both ways.’

  ‘So I must go after him? There’ll be no easy storming of the Tygerbergs. And I conceive it would be a fine trap for us, should he be luring us to the reserves he’s concealing there.’

  ‘Then to invest and storm the castle?’

  ‘Without I have a siege train? Rather the opposite – recall that the majority of Dutch troops must be in the Castle of Good Hope and may sally against us at any time to reverse their fortunes.’

  ‘The Navy to lay ruin to it?’

  Kydd came back immediately. ‘No! The fortifications are too strong and we’d be under fire from heavy guns the whole time. And to lie off in this westerly . . .’

  After an awkward silence around the table Baird slowly and deliberately emptied his glass. ‘Then, gentlemen, I’m presented with a quandary. Quite apart from the French arriving at any time to relieve, where are the provisions and water that will supply my soldiers for a lengthy siege? The nearest friendly territory is to be reckoned in thousands of miles away, I’ll remind you.’

  ‘Er, may we know what you plan now, sir?’ one ventured.

  At first Baird didn’t answer. Then his face closed and he said abruptly, ‘I see no alternative but to go against the castle – and we cannot delay.’

  Chapter 4

  * * *

  Kydd took in the now-familiar bustle as the hoarse commands of an army on the move filled the morning air. The troops were forming up in disciplined columns to march the final five miles to the gates of the castle. It was a sombre advance: no piping, no good-natured chaffing, just subdued singing in the ranks. Ahead lay a formidable and bloody task: to reduce a powerful fortification and storm it with nothing but bayonets and heroism.

  Kydd rode behind Baird at some way back. There was still awkwardness between them after he had stood firm on the impossibility of a seaward bombardment close in. Situated in the crook of Table Bay, the castle had many guns and there were batteries up and down the shoreline; it was only too apparent to Kydd how these could completely dominate the stretch of water opposite.

  There was no doubting the general’s imperative to do something about the odds facing his men but what could he offer? And if it came to rescuing a desperate situation Popham would never allow the larger ships in such shallow, crowded conditions. In any event, given the possibility of a sudden appearance by a French battle squadron, his first duty was to remain ready to stand to seaward.

  The tramping column passed Riet Vlei lagoon, a reedy mere with clouds of birds rising to dispute their presence. The coastal road was deserted, not a sign of life on either hand, but Baird had a rearguard posted that could give warning of the sudden issuing of Janssens from his mountain retreat, and others far out on the wing to keep watch for the Dutch reinforcements.

  The bay curved around, and as they neared their objective, Kydd felt Table Mountain’s huge presence, frowning on their impertinence, the spacious white streets and houses of Cape Town seeming too fair and charming at this distance to contemplate inflicting military horrors upon them. What terror must be going through the minds of the inhabitants at their approach? They would be aware also that, at any moment, the long-expected Dutch reinforcements might appear over the crest of the foothills and they would be caught between two armies.

  The castle came into view: low and compact, it was nevertheless large, star-shaped and with extensive outworks. Floating proudly above all was a huge Batavian standard. And well before they closed with it, they heard, from a lesser fortress at the forward corner of the outer wall, the heavy crump of a single round of artillery. They were being warned.

  ‘Halt!’ The order echoed down the column. Kydd moved up as Baird took out his telescope and carefully inspected the terrain – the castle, its surrounding cover, the foothills at the base of the massive Table Mountain. At length he lowered it, his face set.

  ‘There’s no getting past it. It will have to be invested.’ There was a murmur of dismay at the talk of beleaguering the town. ‘And there’s so little damned time,’ he added bitterly.

  Kydd looked at him in some sympathy. This was the man who had commanded at the dreadful slaughter that had closed the siege of Seringapatam, and those dark memories must be haunting him now.

  Baird snapped the glass shut and turned to his staff. ‘We fall back out of range and set up camp behind that ridge,’ he said, indicating the low rise they had passed. He glanced at Kydd and gave a tired smile. ‘The good captain here has pointed out the difficulties attendant on a sea bombardment. Perhaps he’d be kind enough to advise on the landing of navy cannon as must be in the character of our siege train.’


  Kydd nodded uncomfortably. ‘I shall try, sir.’ With an entire army waiting, regiments consuming rations and the Dutch, no doubt, calling in their outlying forces to counter-attack triumphantly, Baird urgently needed answers, not objections. But to land massive naval guns as he wanted would be near impossible. The heaviest, the thirty-two-pounders of Diadem, were monsters, three tons of cold iron. They would have to be slung beneath two launches in order to be moved, and such a contraption coming through the booming surf would result in an uncontrollable, bone-crushing rampage.

  And there was the question of the gun carriage. Aboard ship these were precision devices to level the gun, absorb recoil and, in general, lay and control the gun. They were fitted with trucks, small wheels expecting a hard deck, which would be utterly useless ashore. The standard army cannon in the field was a six-pounder so there was no question of trying to fit a thirty-two-pounder to its tiny carriage.

  Then Kydd tried to bring to mind what they had achieved at the defence of Acre – but conditions had been different there: a sheltered harbour, a stone wharf, and they had been the defenders, not the attackers. The effect, though, had been dramatic. At three times the size of army cannon, even the smaller naval weapons were not to be scorned. And perhaps four – six of them? Yes, this might work. ‘Sir, in this surf I fear we cannot expect to bring in the biggest guns. Should we fashion a kind of raft it might be possible to get eighteen-pounders to you, the carriage in the nature of a slide as we do employ for our carronades.’

  ‘Very well,’ Baird said heavily. ‘Make it thus, if you please.’

  ‘Then I’ll return to my ship if I may, sir, and—’

  ‘I’d rather you stayed, Mr Kydd,’ he said, adding quietly, ‘I value your counsel. Is there not a lieutenant you might send?’

  ‘Yes, sir, if you wish it.’ He would do his duty but he had little stomach for land wars and the horrific scenes of a sacked city – he yearned for the clean salt tang of the sea and blessed naval routine.

  The camp sprang up in remarkable time, rows of tents at exact spacing covering acres of ground, a flagpole at the centre at the commander-in-chief’s headquarters and sentries posted on all sides.

  A flurry of activity resolved to a dispatch rider arriving. ‘Sir, from Lord Beresford.’ The general had been posted to keep watch on Janssens’s Hollanders, left in the mountains after the Blaauwberg battle.

  Baird read the message with a frown and stuffed it into his waistcoat. He glanced around his officers. ‘We’re in it for the long haul, it seems. Janssens has crossed over the Tygerbergs and, circling around Stellenbosch, has taken residence in the Hottentot-Hollands range only some twenty or thirty miles away. Not only that but the castle has dispatched a substantial wagon train of cannon and supplies to him there.

  ‘Gentlemen – we have decisions to make.’

  The worst fear of a commander-in-chief at siege – that a powerful army threatened his rear – was a reality. Janssens had a secure mountain stronghold, which would serve as a point of concentration for the reinforcements now converging. When the time was right he would descend to crush the invaders.

  The headquarters tent was unfurnished. It served to keep the fierce afternoon sun at bay, but every officer had to remain standing. Baird drank thirstily from a soldier’s canteen, wiped his mouth and turned to address them.

  ‘My fellow officers. I will not hide it from you. We are—’

  ‘Sah – Gen’ral Baird, sah!’ It was the regimental sergeant major of the 71st at the door-flap. ‘L’tenant Grant’s compliments an’ he begs you’d come, um, now,’ he finished woodenly, with an odd expression.

  ‘Very well, Sar’ Major,’ Baird said, and followed him, his officers hurrying along too: nothing short of a grave threat would have impelled the young lieutenant to intrude.

  Standing at the edge of the camp, Grant pointed across the flat ground before the castle to a cavalry officer on a white horse picking his way carefully towards them. He bore a large white flag. When the halfway point was reached he stopped and waited.

  ‘Good God!’ blurted one officer. ‘The gall of ’em, calling for our surrender before the first shot!’

  ‘It’s a trick,’ growled another.

  ‘No, it’s not,’ said Baird, sternly. ‘The Dutch are an odd lot but they know the meaning of honour. L’tenant – do see what it is they want.’

  The young man went for a horse, swung up and crossed to the waiting officer. Hats were doffed, words were briefly exchanged and a letter was handed over. With a civil bow, they wheeled their horses around and returned whence they’d come.

  Grant handed the letter to Baird. ‘Sir, I’m desired to give you this from the commandant of the castle.’

  He took it and gravely broke the seal. As he read it his face worked with emotion. He scanned the words again, then lowered the paper and looked about him, overcome.

  ‘Read it aloud,’ he choked, handing it to his aide.

  ‘To the officer commanding His Britannic Majesty’s Army.

  Sir, To prevent the consequences which must ensue from the Town and Castle being defended, I hereby propose to you a Cessation of Arms for forty-eight hours to enter negotiations.

  I have &c.

  Signed,

  Lieutenant Colonel Hieronimus Casimirus Baron von Prophalow

  Commanding the Town and Castle.’

  In an instant the situation had changed beyond belief. The Dutch were asking to treat for conditions leading to a surrender. What had compelled them to do this, when so much was in their favour, was a mystery.

  ‘If they wish to capitulate, they may do so!’ rapped Baird. ‘General Ferguson, do attend on me at once. Where’s my bloody writing desk?’

  Within an hour Ferguson was on his horse, wending his way to the castle under a white flag. He disappeared inside. Shortly afterwards, as the sun was prettily descending into the sea on the right, he emerged and rode back.

  He dismounted and approached Baird, his face like stone, then saluted stiffly and reached into his waistcoat. ‘Sir – I have it!’ he growled and waved a folded and sealed document, only then allowing a triumphant smile.

  It was no less than the Preliminary Articles of Capitulation, duly signed, which provided for the immediate cessation of hostilities, the surrender of the Castle of Good Hope and the settlement of Cape Town to His Britannic Majesty.

  ‘Damn it, would you smoke it? It’s ours now. The Cape is ours, b’ glory!’

  Baird had given his orders: in the formal matter of marching in to take possession of the Castle of Good Hope, the massed pipers and drummers of all three Highland regiments would figure, but he had insisted that the Sea Battalion, whose dauntless courage and tenacity had shone on the battlefield, would lead the parade.

  Hauling a pair of guns for the last time, their task would be one of peace and triumph: the gun salutes that would proclaim to the world that the castle had now changed hands. Kydd had requested the honour to march with the men, so when the grand parade stepped out with a crash of drums and skirl of pipes, he and Bowden swung along with the seamen.

  His heart swelled with pride as they marched around the bastions and casemates of the fortification to a vast parade-ground on the far side. A richly ornamented sergeant major then strode forward to take charge of proceedings; the Sea Battalion and their guns were directed to be drawn up with gun muzzle pointing seaward while regiments of the line marched and counter-marched in a fine show until they were positioned in two blocks, an open lane between them leading to the gates of the castle.

  It was not a castle an Englishman would easily recognise: low, and soft mustard yellow, it had a certain Dutch quaintness about it, with a colonnaded bell tower high above the main entrance, the double gates dark and closed.

  The pipes and drums stopped, the long ranks rigid and disciplined in the blazing sunshine.

  Major General Baird, in full dress uniform, walked his white charger slowly up to the gates and dismounted. They sl
owly opened and out stepped a single figure in a restrained dark blue uniform. Kydd watched in fascination as the two men bowed extravagantly and spoke together for what seemed an age. Then, with another bow, the officer presented Baird with the keys to the Castle of Good Hope. Both men retired.

  A military band started up inside, sounding unfamiliar and outlandish to Kydd’s ears. The Dutch garrison came out, individuals all, but subtly alien: long dark moustaches, swarthy, a foreign cross-swing as they marched. Unlike the striking colour of the British redcoats – in the chaos of a battle a soldier had only to look round to know that he was not on his own and be heartened – here were muted greens, browns and blues, a dark tonality that to Kydd looked anything but rousing.

  The Dutch soldiers’ bearing was neither sullen nor mutinous but their faces carried a studied blankness. What were they thinking? That their land, homes and future had been given up by their commandant without a shot fired? That while they languished in captivity in the town where they had taken their ease, British soldiery would now flock to taste the fruits of victory?

  The marching ranks headed down the open lane, an endless tramping line of defeated men. At the point where they emerged they were directed to one side, their arms deftly collected and their officers given orders to march them to their barracks.

  Eventually the long column ceased. The last of the Dutch had left, and Baird strode forward into the castle followed by his commanders, which included Kydd as the senior naval officer present. They stood for a space, relishing the moment.

  The forbidding stronghold was unpretentious, but neat and attractive, the yellow and white finish on the stonework suited to its African setting.

  The Batavian standard was still close up at the flagpole. At its base a last Dutch soldier stood to his post, a trumpeter at his side. He saluted Baird stiffly, and while the trumpeter played a thin-sounding call, the colours were struck. He saluted once more, then marched off.