Conquest

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Why, yes, Mijnheer.’ It had been only a few days, travelling into the Hottentots-Hollands, but he had encountered a country of fierce grandeur that was boundless and challenging – and one that Cecilia would certainly adore. It had been a dream-like progress: the jog and jingle of the long narrow ox-wagon, the voorloper with an immense whip driving his sixteen wide-horned oxen along crude tracks over the mountains; the slow climb into the dark, contorted ranges rearing steeply from the flats; impossible hairpin turns with jagged crags to one side and a precipice to the other; then a perilous scramble into the Drup Kelder, a cave of ghostly petrified columns and icy streams.

  Before sunset each day a halt was called and a fire started while the wagons were outspanned. Then, a delicious supper of ostrich eggs cooked in the embers under a blaze of stars and, after a companionable Cape brandy, a comfortable bed had been waiting in the wagon.

  As they had wended their way back, Renzi made acquaintance of the mountain fynbos and the carrion flower, and quantities of springbok antelopes performing their curious pronking. No giraffes or lions, but once he caught sight of a tufted-eared lynx peering resentfully over a rock ledge.

  Renzi took another sip of his wine. ‘Mijnheer, Franschoek is a singular place, set so in the mountains. Here, you’re rightly content with your vines, but what about your farmers there?’

  The landdrost courteously explained: it was the Boer farmers who were the pioneers in this, pushing the boundaries of settlement into the trackless interior; they laid down their isolated farms and by their own hands carved a living out of the hard ground. They were a stern, independent breed.

  Of another sort were the Trekboers who, like desert nomads, moved about the country with their herds, living out of their wagons, while some went even further and scorned any contact with conventional civilisation to the point at which they turned their backs on even their Dutch kin.

  And the original inhabitants? The Khoikhoi were peaceable cattle-herders who had come to terms with the white man, but the rising power were the Xhosa, whose warriors were displacing the Khoikhoi and pressing the settlements back from beyond the mountains to the east. An uneasy truce was keeping them at bay along the Great Fish River but anything could set them off on the blood trail again.

  Renzi was building a picture of a country that was not yet a nation but had its future before it – could it be said that the accident of external forces that had brought them to take the Cape would be to its eventual advantage? The prime motivator for the British Empire had always been less about glory and more about trade, the establishing of markets and sources of raw materials, and thus great efforts were always made to bring peace and the security to allow this to flourish.

  What would not be possible here, given a long period of peace and the world’s markets thrown open? If he and Cecilia could—

  A polite clearing of the throat interrupted his thoughts. ‘Er, shall we go in, Mr Secretary? My daughter Josina has been persuaded to play the fortepiano for us and is anxious for your opinion of her Clementi . . .’

  As he rose Renzi had a fleeting image of his friend, the picture of a thoroughbred seaman. Now their paths would diverge into two very different life courses. At this very moment where was he? What new adventure was L’Aurore’s captain sailing into without him?

  From where he lay, Kydd could make out the vast black bulk of Table Mountain blotting out the stars – the Southern Cross constellation was just about to be swallowed up in its turn. The house seemed to be in a charged silence, broken only by the mournful baa of a distant goat and the muffled sound of revelry down by the water’s edge.

  He smothered a sigh. There was sleepy movement next to him and a pair of legs slowly entwined in his as a female voice demanded huskily, ‘Kiss me again.’ Her resulting passion released his own in an erotic flood, and then they lay together in a long, silent embrace.

  With a final caress she rolled over, but for some reason sleep eluded Kydd. Was it the strong Dutch coffee they had shared on arriving here – or the heady shock of the evening when the distant and haughty Thérèse had melted into the passionate and imperious woman who now shared her bed with him?

  It had happened so quickly: he had paid his call at her town address, a large and well-appointed house where she was apparently the only lodger, and been received graciously. He had stayed to take tea and was able to tell her something of his recent ordeal. She had listened politely but when he had asked about her own tribulations as a French royalist noble she had declined to talk about them, saying they were too painful to her.

  Instead she had asked about his naval career, anxious to be reassured that everything was being done to prevent a French onslaught. He had answered soothingly but she had pressed the issue, asking if he was privy to the highest levels, that they might be concealing the truth from the people. Only when he told her that he regularly spoke with both the governor and the colonial secretary personally were her fears allayed and the first real warmth entered her smile.

  She talked a little of the wine estate her father cultivated up-country, as close to the climate of their ancestral estate in France as it was possible to achieve and ended with a vague suggestion that he might visit her there some day.

  Before leaving he had found himself inviting her to the theatre the following day, being surprised and pleased when she had accepted. Accompanied for the sake of propriety by the unsmiling Widow Coetzee, the keeper of the lodging house, they had attended the fine theatre in Riebeeck Square.

  Kydd had been gratified at the astonishment and envy he saw on all sides, for he was aware that this daughter of a baron was not known for appearances in public, let alone accompanied by a friend of the opposite sex.

  Afterwards he had returned her to the residence and accepted the offer of refreshment. When Vrouw Coetzee retired, they were left alone. He had been taken aback by her ardour – but had responded in like kind, hers a possessive, hungry need, his a startled but willing response.

  With a glance at the now sleeping Thérèse, he could only wonder where it would all lead.

  Kydd waited impatiently at the old jetty for the dawn when he would be seen from L’Aurore and a boat sent. He watched as the light spread, taken with the delicate tints falling on the seascape. It would be hours before the sun appeared over Table Mountain, and until then the entire town and anchorage would be spared its heat.

  The boat came; he acknowledged Calloway’s greeting genially and took the opportunity of viewing his ship from the outside. With no dockyard worth the name, they were on their own resources and were thus spending their time at anchor performing all the tasks of fitting and fettling that were so necessary in keeping a ship seaworthy.

  Topmasts had been sent down for inspection after their encounter with the Ox-eye, giving a stumpy look to the vessel; the larboard shrouds were in the process of being rattled down – the retying of each of the ratlines to parallel the waterline – and the old sailmaker Greer would have much of the upper deck spread with sails a-mending.

  A dull thud ashore told him that the castle had deemed that day had broken; it was answered by the flagship Diadem and aboard L’Aurore on the quarterdeck the Royal Marines were performing the solemn ceremonies attendant on a new day. He ordered the boat to lay off until these were completed, then came aboard.

  As his breakfast was prepared, he asked Tysoe to shave him while Gilbey recited events since he had gone ashore and clumsily asked when Kydd might be returning there. It was of some interest to him, it seemed, as there was to be racing at the Turf Club at Green Point and, of course, the captain and first lieutenant could not be ashore at the same.

  Kydd waved Gilbey away while Tysoe finished his ministrations. The man had a moral right to the liberty but he was eager to see Thérèse again.

  The deeper crump of another gun sounded distinctly. Guns were not fired in a naval anchorage without good cause and he snapped to full alert. There was a sudden clatter and the sound of running feet. A breathles
s messenger burst in. ‘Mr Curzon’s compliments, an’ a gun from Signal Hill wi’ the hoist “enemy in sight”, sir!’

  Kydd pushed him aside and made for the upper deck, heart pounding. He snatched Curzon’s glass. Three red flags vertically. As he took it in, there was a silent puff of smoke as the flags were snatched down to be replaced with another, the numeral one, followed by the thud of the discharge arriving seconds later.

  This was not making sense: a single ship could conceivably be sighted ahead of the main body but this would be at a distance that made firm identification as an enemy very unlikely.

  There was no time for puzzles. Kydd roared the order for quarters, the marine drum in a frantic volleying at the hatchway, and men scrambled to obey in what might be a fight for their lives.

  It had come at the worst possible time. Leda and Encounter gun-brig were still returning after a false alarm to their usual scouting station and the only other, L’Espoir brig-sloop, was under repair and therefore there had been no warning.

  Caught at anchor: no worse fate could have befallen them. In a reverse of Nelson’s famous battle of the Nile, was it now the French who would sweep in and, one by one, destroy their unmoving victims?

  ‘Flagship, Blue Peter, sir!’

  Kydd nodded. Popham was ordering them to get under way to meet the enemy on the open sea and fight whatever the odds. It would take some time to weigh anchor and get sail on, but with the advantage of height the signal station would have sighted it at a far distance – they probably had time.

  Furiously Kydd tried to think. L’Aurore had her topmasts down, not only cluttering the decks but seriously affecting her speed and manoeuvrability. Should he obey and put to sea or stay at moorings until they had been swayed aloft?

  Her twelve-pounders would be of little deciding value against ships-of-the-line, and any other frigate-like service would be impossible with topmasts struck down – there was no alternative: he had to stay until they were a-taunt. But failing to sail in the presence of the enemy was a serious court-martial offence, and if the worst happened, an ignorant press would crucify him.

  ‘Sir! Sir! Look!’ The upper sails of a ship were close in on the other side of the point, the vessel about to put into Table Bay. And flying brazenly out was the tricolour of France.

  It was a disaster. Not only had they been caught at anchor but the enemy had come from an unexpected direction, throwing them utterly into confusion. It was masterly timing, and if this was the first of the battle squadron, they had less than an hour to live.

  Unexpectedly, a gun from Diadem drew attention to the next signal. The Blue Peter jerked down: Popham wanted the squadron to stay at anchor. Then the Dutch colours rose on the ensign staff and at the same time, along the ship’s side, the rows of bristling guns vanished as they were hauled in and the gun-ports shut.

  Kydd quickly caught on: the commodore had reasoned that the ship that had been identified as an enemy had familiarly sailed close to the Cape peninsula because it was expecting Cape Town still to be in the hands of the Dutch. She was probably a stray from one of the battle-groups come to re-victual or repair. They would find out soon enough: if the ship shied away in alarm it would be proof, but then it would be free to draw down the rest of the French squadron. Unless . . . ?

  The other British ships followed the flagship’s lead, but there was another gun – the Dutch colours on Diadem dipped, then rose again, a stern reminder to the castle ashore, which was slow in sending up a Dutch standard.

  The French ship came into full view, a heavy frigate that made a show of hauling her wind as she swept around and, with a signal hoist flying, headed directly into the anchorage. Assured by the tranquil early-morning scene, with everything in place as it had expected – men-o’-war peacefully at anchor and with the colours of an ally floating lazily out from every vessel – the unsuspecting frigate made for the flagship.

  Kydd held his breath: at any moment there could be the panic of recognition, a sheering away – but still it came on. Sailing by the first, a sloop, it pressed on, passing L’Aurore so close that individual sailors and the three officers on the quarterdeck could be seen plainly.

  As far as Kydd knew no 64-gun ship was found in the French Navy and therefore Diadem would seem very Dutch to them – and, of course, L’Aurore, recently captured herself, had unimpeachable French lines.

  The ship brought to opposite Diadem in a fine show. There was unbearable tension: any false move now and they would take fright. All now depended on Popham’s timing.

  Every eye was on the stranger’s fo’c’sle – her bower anchor let go to plunge into the sea at the same time as her sail was taken smartly in. Unbelievably, it had happened.

  And in an instant the Dutch colours were struck in Diadem. Watching for the signal, in every ship rows of gun-ports flew open and, with a deadly rumble, guns were run out in an unanswerable challenge.

  It was check and mate.

  Aboard the hapless ship, after a moment’s hesitation, the tricolour dropped down in short, angry jerks.

  As nearest, and with a boat already in the water, L’Aurore was ordered to take possession. Out of consideration for the feelings of the other frigate captain, Kydd himself went, with Saxton and a file of marines.

  As they approached he noted the weather-worn appearance of the vessel; this ship had kept the seas for months and therefore was almost certainly part of the feared battle squadrons. The loss of a frigate would be felt keenly.

  He was first up the side, punctiliously doffing his hat to the quarterdeck and then to the group of officers standing rigidly awaiting him. ‘Je suis le capitaine de vaisseau Thomas Kydd du navire de sa majesté L’Aurore . . .’

  It transpired that the tight-faced captain was named Brettel and had the honour to command the French National Ship La Voluntaire on a peaceful voyage to Cape Town and wondered at the temerity of the English to act so in Dutch waters.

  Kydd bowed extravagantly. ‘Capitaine Brettel, je suis désolé de vous informer que . . .’ It took only a few moments to tell the luckless man of the capture of Cape Town and therefore the necessity of relieving him of the command of La Voluntaire. He paused significantly. The man reluctantly unfastened his sword in its scabbard from his belt and presented it with a stiff bow. It was done.

  Passing it smoothly to Saxton, Kydd nodded to Poulden, who went to the mizzen peak halyards and toggled on English colours above the French, hauling them up with a practised hand over hand. ‘And I’ll trouble you for the keys to the powder magazine,’ he added politely.

  Sergeant Dodd took them and, with his corporal and two men, went below to mount guard. Then it was just the closing act. ‘Ah, it would oblige me, sir, should you accompany me to the flagship to meet our commander.’

  Popham would get the sword but, much more importantly, he could speak with the man who knew where the battle squadron was. Saxton would have the sense to get below with the rest of the marines and confiscate any charts and papers he could find, and the French seamen would be landed to an inglorious captivity, all in an hour or so of arriving at what they thought would be a welcome run ashore.

  Dodd returned hurriedly up the hatchway. ‘Sir! Mr Kydd, sir! There’s men below – English soldiers, an’ main glad they be t’ see us!’

  The French captain gave a tired smile. ‘Taken in a transport. It was my intention to land them here – the reason we touched at the Cape.’

  They started to come up from below, blinking in the sunlight, stretching and rubbing their limbs, in their dozens, scores – too many to count. Their rising joy was infectious as they laughed and shouted incredulously, and tried to shake hands with every Englishman they could reach, some weeping openly and a few staring gape-mouthed at the overwhelming sight of so many ships and the grand bulking of Table Mountain.

  ‘Er, Sar’nt Dodd – get those men into lines or something!’ Kydd chided, in mock indignation. This was an altogether unexpected bonus and at the very least a welcome addit
ion to Baird’s forces.

  ‘And you’re welcome to that heathen beast we have below,’ the captain said sourly. ‘It took seven good men to put him in irons, no less.’

  Kydd toyed with leaving the troublemaker for later but, in the general joy, decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘Go below and see if he’ll come quietly,’ he told Dodd. ‘Any trouble and he stays.’

  When the sergeant returned it was with a barrel of a Chinaman with fiery eyes and a scowl. Kydd recognised him instantly. ‘Ah Wong!’ He laughed delightedly. It had been many years but at one time he had been messmates with the circus strongman and seen his skill at scrimshaw.

  Wong’s face showed suspicion and surprise, then creased into happiness. Hurrying across, he gave a respectful Oriental bow and touched his forehead. ‘Ah, Tom Kydd, sir! You now officer. Plissed to see!’

  Aboard L’Aurore, Wong was overwhelmed when he found another old shipmate, Toby Stirk, there to greet him. Kydd soon found out what had happened: discharged from a broken-down man-o’-war in Sheerness, he had signed aboard a transport on the India run, which had had the misfortune to encounter the Willaumez battle squadron, and he had done his best to make known his displeasure at captivity.

  What he would do when he found Doud and Pinto below as well could only be imagined, but of one thing Kydd was sure: they had just won a valuable addition to L’Aurore’s company.

  Kydd’s invitation to the cool promenades of the Company Gardens was accepted with a coquettish pout. ‘Why, of course I should, M’sieur le capitaine grand!’

  It was the place to see and be seen and Kydd strolled with Thérèse on his arm, flaunting her beauty before the gentility of Cape Town. With Vrouw Coetzee at a discreet distance behind, he nodded graciously to those who doffed their hats in admiration, bowing civilly to others, all the time his heart swelling with pride.

  She did not deign to glance at anyone, her head lifted in patrician disdain, but Kydd didn’t care. She was openly admitting that a liaison existed between them and from now on the world would not be the same.