Conquest

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Stan’ to attention!’ he roared hoarsely, glaring at them.

  They obeyed with enthusiasm, if in highly individual poses. ‘Belay that, Toby!’ Poulden blurted in dismay. ‘I’m cox’n an’ it’s me as—’

  ‘Silence in th’ ranks!’ Stirk ordered gleefully, then twirled about and knuckled his forehead to Kydd. ‘Surrender party ready f’r inspection, sir!’

  So it was that grave military courtesies were exchanged that marked the reluctant yielding by one to the overbearing forces of the other, and while Kydd and Francken solemnly conferred, the barge was sent back with orders for the ship.

  On the flagpole at the landing place, the Batavian flag descended as a gun salute thudded out importantly from the frigate. The English Union Flag was bent on, and as it slowly rose an identical salute banged out.

  Honour satisfied, there was nothing more to do than shake hands and depart, with a promise to send later perhaps a more permanent form of soldiery for an official ceremony.

  Mossel Bay, the last defensive work on Kydd’s list, was some way further along the coast and was very much an unknown quantity. A port serving the frontier region of Boer settlement, it had tracks radiating out into the vast interior to exchange produce for trade goods.

  How had the Boers taken their colony’s sudden reversal of fortune? Would they fight to the last for their lands? Or had they no inkling of what had befallen their largest town?

  Stretching out along the scrubby red-brown coast they made the prominence of Cape St Blaize before noon of the second day. Mossel Bay lay around the point, and at this remoteness the sudden appearance of a frigate could have only one meaning.

  The foot of the cape was seething white with, further out, a welter of conflicting seas betraying the presence of Blinder Rock, carefully marked on the chart. In tiny words along the edge the information was offered that, centuries before, the Portuguese navigator Dias had reached this far to prove that there was a route east to the riches of the Indies and Cathay. Kydd gave a wry smile: Renzi would have delighted in the knowledge.

  Like so many of the havens in the south of Africa, this was open to the south-east and thus a lee shore, but as they rounded the cape well clear, the defending fort was quickly spotted. Squarely at the tip of the promontory, the national flag streaming out, this was a much more substantial structure. Low, squat and pierced for guns, it was well placed to command the scatter of buildings below and could reach out and destroy any who dared to threaten the score or so of various craft huddled within the curl of shore beyond.

  Once more his barge put out, its large white flag prominent, L’Aurore at single anchor with her colours in plain view. As they neared the shore the landing place came into sight, a sturdy pier advancing into the sea, quite capable of taking alongside coastal brigs – or smaller troop transports.

  Well before they reached it, a file of soldiers trotted out and formed line. An officer arrived, dismounted from a white horse, and stood watching their approach, his arms folded arrogantly.

  Kydd mounted the boat stairs, conscious that, despite Tysoe’s best efforts, his uniform sagged and was tarnished with seawater. The officer waited, obliging Kydd to come to him. Dressed distinctively in a blue coat with red facings and silver epaulettes, his black boots were immaculately polished and he wore a tricoloured sash about his waist.

  His features were dark-tanned and hard, and he stood with ill-concealed animosity.

  ‘Captain Thomas Kydd of L’Aurore frigate. I bring greetings from His Britannic Majesty,’ Kydd opened. In his limited experience, most Dutch had English, unlike the French. ‘Sir, I come with news of—’

  ‘Major Hooft, Fifth Regiment of Pandours. You wish a parley, sir?’ he snapped, slapping his side impatiently with a riding crop made of the tail of some African beast.

  ‘Sir, I bear tidings from the governor concerning the present situation,’ Kydd said carefully.

  ‘Ver’ well.’ He spat an order at the African sergeant and stalked off towards the small town, leaving Kydd to follow in undignified haste. There was a factor’s office near the wharf and Hooft went in with a crash of doors. ‘Uit!’ he bellowed. ‘Iedereen krijgt uit!’

  Frightened clerks spilled out into the sunlight, blinking and confused. ‘We speak now!’ Hooft threw at Kydd. He took the biggest chair and sat legs outstretched, looking up at Kydd. ‘Well?’

  Kydd handed a document to him. ‘The governor prays you will understand the necessity of coming to an early arrangement for—’

  ‘Wat een zottenpraat?’ Hooft shouted, waving the paper. ‘How dare you, sir?’

  ‘Major Hooft, I don’t understand—’

  ‘Why, this is signed by an Englishman! Governor? Apekop!’

  Kydd held his temper with difficulty. ‘You may not be aware that after a recent battle there is a capitulation. Here is the proof – signed by Baron von Prophalow himself.’

  ‘Ha! I have heard of Blaauwberg – a temporary reverse at arms only. Prophalow had no right to sign a capitulation while our forces regrouped. It’s a treachery! The true governor of the colony is at Swellendam at the head of his army, and if you think I betray him while our colour still flies then you insult me, Captain,’ he thundered.

  ‘I beg you reconsider, sir. Our landings are complete, we—’

  Hooft shot to his feet. ‘Go, sir!’ he said in fury. ‘Go before I order my men to deal with you as you deserve.’

  Kydd forced himself to remain calm. ‘My ship—’

  ‘Will be fired on if it’s still there in one hour.’

  ‘Sir. If you fail to come to terms with me, it must be reported to my commander and unfortunate consequences will in course ensue.’

  Lifting his crop, Hooft slowly advanced on Kydd, smacking it into his palm. ‘You threaten me? I’ll remind you, Mynheer, that we are enemies and we are still at war.’

  Kydd stood his ground, holding the man’s gaze steadily.

  ‘So!’ The whip hovered an inch from his nose. ‘I give you five more minutes on Batavian soil – then I come for you, hein?’

  Kydd had no option but to return to his ship and did so. On the face of it the encounter had been absurd. For all the man knew, the frigate in the bay could well have held numbers of troops ready to storm ashore – but then again, he would be aware of how fraught a task that would be for Kydd under the guns of his fort.

  There was no way Kydd’s orders included starting a war on his own. He must allow the arrogant prig his triumph, return and admit to General Baird that there was still one significant defensive work manned and active in his rear.

  He looked back at the fort on the heights, glowering down, dominating the little harbour. It stood on three-hundred-foot near-vertical cliffs, and any attempt to bring L’Aurore inshore to threaten bombardment was risking too much.

  The coast on either side away from the harbour was rock-girt and forbidding and, as far as he could tell, had nowhere suitable to land a boat of any kind. The only conceivable place was the pier.

  Quite close by, and firmly under the guns of the fort, a convenient fresh-water rivulet lazily issued over the sand.

  A road leading along the foreshore was fringed with houses, then disappeared up into the scrub.

  Risking ship or lives in a gesture was not warranted. ‘Get us under way, Mr Gilbey,’ he snapped.

  ‘Um, where to, sir?’

  ‘West’d. We return,’ Kydd said, with a look daring the lieutenant to comment.

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  They fell away before the brisk wind and soon Cape St Blaize turned to an anonymous dark grey and sank below the horizon as he slumped in his chair moodily. Tysoe came and set his table for dinner.

  He accepted a glass of claret and as he sipped a thought came. One that swelled and blossomed until he laughed aloud. ‘Ask the master to attend at convenience,’ he ordered, and sat back in satisfaction.

  ‘I see, sir,’ Bowden said admiringly, putting down his breakfast coffee. ‘During the
night we stood out to sea and completed a triangle that sees us the other side of Mossel Bay, and when we appear, it’s as if we’re another ship!’

  ‘Not quite.’ Kydd helped himself to another roll and applied the plum jam liberally. ‘It’s not L’Aurore that will appear – but a local coaster as will need watering. It arrives near dusk and can’t begin until sun-up.’

  ‘With men concealed, sir?’

  ‘Not only men – but a surprise for our biggety Dutchman.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘First things first, Mr Bowden. We’ve to catch our vessel or we have no plan. Is the coast in sight at all?’

  ‘The master thinks we’re some six leagues beyond Mossel Bay, sir.’

  ‘Good. We’ll keep well in with the land and I desire a sharp lookout for any small vessels. I’m to be called the instant one’s in sight.’

  As if catching word of their escapade, not a sail blemished the horizon, just simple native craft, a mussel-dredger, after which the bay was named, and a Moorish vessel with a soaring lateen, an exotic token of the utterly different world that lay around the tip of Africa. But no coaster.

  Then a hesitant hail from the maintop. ‘I see a – a barky, lying inshore!’

  They had just passed a small but lofty headland and opened a very pretty inlet nestled in green bluffs, with a near perfect triangle of white sand at its head. Moored safely to seaward of the breakers was a high-sided two-master – a lugger or schooner: with her gear struck down, it was difficult to tell.

  A few buildings perched on the side of one steep slope – was the owner there and willing to hire his vessel? ‘Away the cutter,’ Kydd ordered, after L’Aurore had hove to. Would the local settlers deal with the English enemy? If not, then they were in trouble – by their own admission they were now at peace, and seizing a coastal trader would be deemed piracy.

  The boat surfed in on the backs of eager combers in an exhilarating ride through the shallows, and beached with a hiss. Kydd, in plain dress, moved to the bow. He sprang over the gunwale and up the beach before the next wave. Poulden and Stirk loped to his side.

  There was a feeling of placidity in the hot sunshine as if the ancient continent were asleep. On the left were a few huts and shanties and Kydd trudged towards them, the pungency of drying fish reaching out to him.

  As they neared, a dog started barking, then another. The animals rushed over, mangy and odd-coloured, disputing their progress. An astonished African woman with a basket of fish on her head came to berate them, but stood open-mouthed.

  Stirk kicked at the dogs with an oath and they raced off. The little group trudged on. At the end of the beach one shack, larger than the others, had a wide terrace on stilts with wicker chairs and tables proclaiming its trade.

  ‘We’ll try the tap-house,’ Kydd said. It looked deserted in the afternoon heat but as they mounted the steps an unshaven and tousle-headed white man emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. He stopped in astonishment. Then, on seeing L’Aurore offshore, his face cleared.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ Kydd pronounced loudly.

  A chuckle emerged. ‘I reckon,’ he grunted, ‘seein’ as I was born in Stepney.’

  ‘Then you’re the very man to help us. Captain Kydd, two of my crew. Now, we’d like to discuss—’

  ‘Hold hard, Cap’n! This here is the Red Ox mug-house, what th’ Dutch call a wijnhuis on account you’ll get no beer. Now what’ll you be havin’?’

  ‘Tell me – is there a fort or soldiers close by? If we’re seen . . .’

  ‘Never. Closest is Mossel Bay an’ he never stirs his arse unless there’s a profit in it f’r him. No, rest easy, shipmates, ain’t no one going to disturb ye here. I c’n recommend the blackstrap, out o’ Stellenbosch, it is. So that’s three, then?’

  Kydd gave a tight smile – as long as they had a result by nightfall . . . and there was, of course, the necessity to obtain local information. Aware of the expectant looks from Stirk and Poulden he offered a shilling. ‘Will you take this?’

  ‘Lord love yer! O’ course. Now m’ tally is Jones, shall we say, an’ I’d admire to know how th’ old country is faring. I don’t get t’ see too many o’ me countrymen out here – I tell a lie, I’ve never even seen hide of an Englishman since—’

  ‘Later, Mr Jones. What we’d like to do is hire that two-master out there. Do you think it possible?’

  ‘It’s possible if I say so.’ Three heavy china cups appeared and a rich scarlet liquid was splashed into them from a nameless bottle. ‘Take a snorter o’ that, then. Tell me what ye thinks.’

  It was remarkably good: full-bodied and honest, quite distinct from a European claret. ‘A fine drop, Mr Jones,’ Kydd said sincerely, adding, ‘And we’ll need a muzzler each for my stout boat’s crew.’ There would be ribaldry on the mess-decks later as it was learned that the captain had stood a round for them in the line of duty.

  He took another sip. ‘You said Major Hooft is interested in profit?’ he prodded.

  ‘Ye’ve had dealin’s with the bastard already? He’s a militia major only, puts on these dandy-prat airs and he’s aught but a jumped up revenooer, takes a tax on the grains comin’ from up-country an’ there’s not a soul but hates the sight o’ him.’

  ‘So his fort’s really nothing to speak of?’

  Stirk jerked to his feet, swearing and lashing at his trousers until a large lizard scuttled away. He sat again slowly, trying to look casual.

  ‘Fort? It’s big enough, wi’ great guns an’ all. Tell me, Batavia bein’ y’r enemy, have ye any thought o’ making a strike agin the Cape? It’s a right dimber place as would—’

  ‘Less’n a week ago we defeated the Dutch at Blaauwberg. Cape Town is ours.’

  ‘Glory be! So the Cape is British . . .’

  ‘Well, er, the Dutch governor is still in the mountains with an army – but, never fear, our redcoats are on their way to dispute with him.’

  This was met with a cynical smile. ‘Oh? In back-country mountain kloofs he knows s’ well? He’s a-waiting f’r the Boers to come from the veld t’ reinforce him. Then he’ll be down on ye.’

  Kydd grimaced and changed the subject. ‘Mr Jones – how is it you, as an Englishman, are suffered to remain free under Batavian rule?’

  ‘Another beker van die wyn, Cap’n?’ Grinning, Stirk and Poulden pushed their cups forward. ‘It’s like this. There’s every kind o’ human on God’s earth livin’ here, an’ as long as we don’t kick up a moil, the country’s big enough f’r us all, so it is.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’re two thousan’ leagues from Europe, an’ we live different in Africa. Enough worryin’ about bein’ took by a rhino or lion without we start marchin’ up ’n down. Xhosa war drums on th’ frontier an’ Khoikhoi going scared, we’ve plenty t’ vex us without we take after your Napoleyong an’ friends.’

  Kydd slapped at an insect but was too late: its spiteful sting lanced his arm. ‘That’s as may be, Mr Jones,’ he said irritably. ‘I’m to ask you again. Are you willing to hire your vessel to the Crown?’

  ‘Well, as t’ that . . .’ He flicked a rag expertly. ‘It’s not rightly m’ own. Belongs t’ Joseph M’Bembe. Ye’ll need to speak wi’ him.’

  Swallowing his annoyance, Kydd asked, ‘Where can we find him, then?’

  ‘Oh, I c’n send a younker when we’re ready. Stayin’ f’r vittles? There’s a right fine mutton bredie as is waitin’ f’r attention . . .’

  Kydd found another coin and slid it across. ‘Do you ask Mr Bemby to call and I’d be much obliged,’ he said heavily.

  ‘No hurry, Cap’n. We’ve time – you’ll tell me o’ London this time o’ year. How’s y’r—’

  ‘I’d take it kindly should you send for Mr Bemby NOW!’

  With a hurt look Jones put fingers into his mouth and whistled. A barefoot child rushed in, his hand held out meaningfully. He looked askance at Kydd’s coin but after a scolding in some native dialect he scampered off.
/>   ‘Well, now, we was speakin’ of London an’ what sport’s t’ be found this time o’ year . . .’

  The dark bulk of a massively built man appeared at the steps up to the terrace, then stopped, looking suspiciously at the three white men. ‘Se vir my wie jy is?’ he said softly, in a voice that was rich and deep.

  ‘They’s English, Joe, like me.’

  ‘What you want?’

  ‘To hire your vessel, Mr Bemby,’ Kydd rapped. If he didn’t get satisfaction in the next five minutes he would think again about the whole venture.

  ‘That your ship?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Why you want mine?’ The eyes were small but shrewd.

  ‘I’m offering to hire your whole vessel for three days, its crew not needed. The purpose is our business.’

  ‘English. You’s going agin the Dutch an’ you need my ship.’

  ‘I didn’t say—’

  ‘It’s Mossel Bay – you’re takin’ on Hooft.’ His face creased with mirth and he became animated. ‘That rakker Hooft! Not easy, not a-tall. He’s three hund’erd Pandours in that fort – Ndebele, no good. How many men you got in that ship?’

  Kydd hesitated to take a stranger into his confidence, especially a country trader like this. But if he didn’t, there could be no move against Hooft.

  ‘I’m not starting a war with Major Hooft, Mr Bemby. Just a-persuading him is all. My plan is to bring ashore a howitzer – an army gun that throws a shell that explodes where it lands.’

  There was a pair in L’Aurore’s hold from the Blaauwberg battle not yet returned to stores and one would make an excellent frightener for troops not expecting it. Stirk and Poulden exchanged knowing glances.

  ‘Where you take it on land?’ M’Bembe demanded.

  ‘I thought to come in just before nightfall as if we were watering. There’s that stream by the pier?’

  ‘Ever’one uses it, this is true.’

  ‘We sling the gun under a raft of four barrels, wait for dark and, um, get it up on the heights behind the fort ready for daybreak. I take it there’s no guns pointing inland?’ It would be strange if there were.