Conquest

by Julian Stockwin

  There was a knock and Bowden entered holding out some papers. ‘The midshipman’s workings, sir.’ There was no need for this: Kydd’s orders were that their instructor would be the junior lieutenant and he himself would inspect them only if asked to do so. But he knew why Bowden had come.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bowden. Do take a dish of tea with me.’

  ‘Sir.’ The third lieutenant sat awkwardly in one of the chairs at the stern-lights. ‘Sir – er, the present action—’

  ‘The gunroom talking wry, are they?’

  ‘Well, some do say—’

  ‘As so they may.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘They haven’t the facts to weigh my decision and are making their judgements on what they see. They should know an active and diligent naval officer has his duty and that is to engage the enemy, which is all that counts.’

  ‘So you have privy intelligence, sir?’ Bowden asked daringly.

  ‘Not as who might say,’ Kydd said. ‘Our secret army is not so easily flushed out. It is we, the eyes of the fleet, who have the duty to find it and report, and the present danger must take precedence over anything.’

  ‘To abandoning an engagement?’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  Kydd sighed. ‘There are good and proper reasons that the brig so takes my attention, young Bowden, but shall we leave it that I do feel it in my bones? A sense much prized by captains, believe me.’

  ‘And if Africaine returns while we’re rummaging?’

  ‘We have the legs of the Frenchy in anything of a breeze, and Leda will be taking her attention for some hours to come. As long as we don’t delay our investigating then we’ll have time.’

  Bowden broke into a broad smile. ‘Then we go forward in faith and cry shame on he who doubts! Thank you, sir.’

  Kydd knew he had told him nothing of substance – in fact he’d virtually admitted that gut instinct was driving him on – but to the young man it had been enough.

  In a state of high expectation, L’Aurore sighted the island and came up on its windward side, careful to round it close to.

  And there was the brig, lying at anchor in the same position they had left her, nothing changed.

  ‘Seems innocent enough, sir,’ murmured Kendall.

  ‘Then why’s she still here?’ Kydd said. ‘We’ll heave to abreast, give ’em a look at us.’

  He took in the plain but serviceable merchant-service lines. Of medium tonnage, she was not deeply laden, judging from her marks. One or two sailors on deck were idly watching them and there was no flag, which was common enough as owners discouraged the wearing out of perfectly good bunting in vain display. For the moment he had to agree with the master’s assessment.

  Ignoring the muttered cynical comments of watching seamen, he ordered, ‘I’ll have the larb’d guns run out as we come up, on my command. And two boats in the water – four armed marines in each, Mr Clinton. I’ll take the barge, Mr Curzon the cutter.’ If he was going to be made to look a fool, he’d give them something to talk about.

  In the light airs L’Aurore glided to a stop opposite the brig. Her gun-ports opened and, with a sudden rumble, the length of the gun-deck became filled with the deadly muzzles of her guns. There would be no mistaking her intentions now.

  Kydd dropped into the barge and, taking position aft, growled to his coxswain to shove off. Poulden did so, then asked politely, ‘Um, what’re we lookin’ for, then, sir?’

  Just what would it be that could turn an innocent ship into a vital part of a great plot to seize back the Cape for Bonaparte? What evidence was there to find that could prove his instinct true? ‘We’ll know that when we find it,’ Kydd replied firmly. As a lieutenant, he had conducted boardings all over the world; the arcane wording of ship’s papers, bills of lading, manifests, equipage – all these he knew and the tricks as well, but this was another matter entirely. If the brig was a neutral he would have to tread very carefully to avoid an international incident, but at the same time ensure he did all it took to unmask any villainy. There would be no second chance.

  As they neared, he looked keenly to see if there was the slightest thing untoward. The totality of offensive weapons were two pairs of what looked like ancient six-pounders and an empty port, nothing more. ‘Mr Curzon, stand off until I hail,’ he called across to the cutter, which obediently gave way to the barge, the men laying on their oars.

  Poulden headed for the deeper waist of the vessel, where seamen were gathering, and brought the barge alongside. Conscious of being under eye, Kydd swung over the bulwark and rose to meet the resentful look of the brig’s master. ‘Do you have English?’ he asked briskly.

  The man shook his head but did, it seemed, understand French, so Kydd went on, in that language, ‘My apologies for the manner of this boarding but we are on the lookout for a notorious pirate known to be in these parts. Your name and ship’s port of registry, if you please.’

  ‘Enrique, San Salvador.’

  A Brazilian? Therefore Portuguese and an ally.

  ‘Lourenço Marques in palm oil, bound for Rio de Janeiro.’

  The seamen about him were tense and watchful, an officer avoiding his eye – in Kydd’s experience, a sign of a bad conscience. He sniffed delicately. In the heat there were many odours but none that could be described as palm oil – all cargo in quantity stank richly, no matter how closely stowed, and he would lay money on there being none in this vessel.

  ‘Ah, if that is so, Captain Enrique, then perhaps you’ll show me your papers. Shall we go . . . ?’

  The older man hesitated, his eyes sliding to the fore-hatchway.

  ‘Come along, sir! It shouldn’t take long – where is your cabin? Aft, is it?’

  ‘Er, I . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It would be better if . . .’

  ‘If?’ Kydd said, making a show of impatience.

  Enrique turned to one of his men and muttered an order. The man gave a lopsided smile, padded off forward, knocked sharply at the fore-companionway and stood aside.

  There was movement and the door swung open. One by one, blinking in the bright sunshine and dripping with sweat from their confinement, a stream of soldiers came up from below – a dozen or more, officers and sergeants, each in the unmistakable colour of French infantry of the line.

  They glanced bitterly at the graceful frigate and its naked guns lying off and stood stiffly before Kydd. ‘Poncelot, Chef de Bataillon de Chasseurs de la Réunion,’ the oldest said haughtily. His face had cruel lines and held a barely contained rage.

  The man had no choice in the manner of his surrender, no gallant stand against great odds, no hot-blooded declarations, simply a bald recognition of impotence, a species of checkmate, but Kydd was unmoved. He needed to know just what a senior infantry officer was doing aboard a lowly brig. And the others: each soldier as he emerged looked hard and experienced, some of Napoleon’s finest, not the raw colonial troops to be expected in the French Indian Ocean islands – another piece of the puzzle.

  Kydd bowed, as custom dictated. ‘Captain Kydd of His Majesty’s Frigate L’Aurore. I’m obliged to inform you that by the fortune of war this ship stands taken and its company are now prisoners-of-war. As you may notice, our force is overwhelming and resistance is therefore not possible.’

  Poncelot smouldered. ‘What are your conditions?’

  ‘How many are you?’ Kydd countered.

  ‘Fifty in all.’

  ‘Then, in the circumstances, as a gesture of honour, the officers may keep their swords but the men must drop their weapons over the side.’

  ‘Very well. In the face of impossible odds we do capitulate.’

  Kydd bowed again.

  The merchant ship carried no colours to be hauled down and these soldiers’ standards or whatever were, no doubt, in their baggage; there would be no ceremonials to please the Royal Marines. Kydd signalled to Curzon to come aboard. ‘Post guards where you see fit, and
after these soldiers have thrown their weapons in the sea, keep them on deck while you do a thorough search below in case any have been, um, overlooked.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir. Er, might one ask how you knew that—’

  ‘Not every challenge in war is met with powder-smoke, Mr Curzon.’ Nevertheless Kydd was gratified at his lieutenant’s look of amazement and respect.

  He turned to the French officer. ‘My condolences on your misfortune, sir. Do let us take a little wine together. The captain’s quarters?’

  The cynical smile on the Frenchman showed that he knew full well Kydd’s intention, and he sat in rigid silence in the homely little cabin.

  ‘Sir, it does cross my mind it’s a singular thing that an experienced and honourable officer such as yourself is only afforded passage in such a humble vessel. For a long voyage surely this is too much to be borne,’ Kydd began.

  Poncelot stared at him mutely, his lips curled in contempt. Kydd held back his irritation. It was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to pry any information from this man. How could he secure evidence of the secret army, the uncovering of a grand plot, an admission of intent against Cape Town?

  ‘The armies of France are victorious throughout Europe, but it is in the colonies that they fail,’ he continued, in a sympathetic tone. ‘Is it because there’s no glory to be won in these parts?’

  There was no response. Muffled splashes and plunges announced that the arms were now being dropped overside.

  Kydd was frustrated: L’Aurore would now have to accompany the brig as prize back to Cape Town. There was enough evidence to reveal French chicanery, but on such a small scale. Would it be enough to mollify his superiors?

  He tried again, but was met with the same mocking silence.

  Something was afoot but there was nothing to suggest it had anything to do with a secret army. So few troops: it made no sense, any more than that these were all battle-hardened veterans.

  ‘We sail for Cape Town immediately,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll remind you that you’ll be constantly under the guns of my frigate, but in so far as there is no interfering with the navigation of this ship, your men will not be confined. Any attempt at a rising will result in their instant restraint in fetters below decks. Is that clear, sir?’

  He got to his feet, angry at not having thought of some cunning ruse to weasel the man’s secrets from him. Poncelot rose too, with a slight bow and clicking of heels in the continental way, still with his maddening smirk. What was he missing?

  It was a straightforward enough task to ready the brig for sea. Bowden was appointed prizemaster and old Teazers, sailors from Kydd’s first command, a similarly rigged vessel, were sent over to replace its crew, who were hauled aboard L’Aurore. Night hails and countersigns were issued, sea-bags swung into boats and the little convoy put to sea.

  Kydd went to his cabin to write his dispatch. Dissatisfied with the wording, he went up for air, frowning at the anonymous low coastline slowly passing. Stirk was supervising his mate’s crew at work on a carronade and looked up at Kydd’s arrival, touching his forehead with a pleased grin.

  Then Gilbey came up hesitantly beside him and doffed his hat. ‘Sir, I’m t’ say I stand well chided for m’ lack o’ faith.’

  ‘As so you should.’

  ‘A brig an’ fifty Frog lobsterbacks – a good day’s work, I believe.’

  ‘No,’ Kydd replied curtly. ‘Not so. There’s villainy afoot and I got nothing about it out of the Frenchman. Something wicked – we’re having to leave it astern and it damn well sticks in my throat.’

  He turned on his heel and went below to resume the dispatch. As he finished his work, there was a soft knock at the door.

  It was Curzon, with a sailor standing a little way behind him. ‘Gunner’s Mate Stirk, sir. Wishes a word.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Tobias Stirk padded in, remaining standing but with a wolfish smile. His bare feet and big splayed toes on the chequered floor-cloth brought a smothered grin from Kydd in remembrance of times past.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Stirk?’

  ‘Ah. It’s just t’ say I overheard what ye said t’ Mr Gilbey about the mongseer not bein’ straight wi’ ye an’ all. Thought it not right, he a Frenchy. So me an’ Wong just had an interestin’ yatter wi’ one o’ the brig’s quartermasters. A bit shy at first, but we got there in th’ end.’

  ‘He’s not, as who’s to say, damaged at all?’

  ‘He’ll recover, Mr Kydd.’ Stirk grunted dismissively. ‘Now here’s what he let on about. Seems this is their third an’ final voyage out o’ Mauritius wi’ cargo f’r some sort o’ rat-hole along the coast. First they lands muskets, then powder an’ now a parcel o’ soldiers t’ finish with.’

  A secret base! This was more like it. ‘Where is this, er, port?’

  ‘Ain’t a port as ye’d know it, sir, more like up a river out o’ sight, jury-rigged like.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘They’s to land their gaff, hand it over t’ some cove who he’s heard is goin’ t’ rouse up the blacks b’ givin’ ’em muskets against us. Right scareful, he says, they bein’ such a fierce bunch o’ cannibals an’ all.’

  Kydd felt a rising excitement – but there must be more to it. Then he realised that if there was a big enough insurgence, there would be no alternative but to send a strong force to quell it, leaving Cape Town open to a direct assault.

  So devilish! So well planned – and it had turned out that the delivery of these soldiers to direct the native army was the final move before the frontier was set aflame. With so much at stake, no wonder Africaine had been sent as escort, and so desperate to see the brig to its final destination and do all it could to prevent word of their presence getting out.

  None the less, the brig’s capture would soon become known and replacements sent. The only sure way to prevent the inevitable was to destroy the base and its weapons.

  ‘This is deadly important,’ Kydd said, with intensity. ‘We must find this port and wipe it out before everything takes fire. Did your friend say where it was?’

  ‘No good askin’ him,’ Stirk said sorrowfully. ‘He ain’t got the navigation. Says as it’s up a river, is all.’

  To search every inlet, every river, in the south of Africa was out of the question. Should he put pressure on the officers? Renzi’s logic would say that for the good of the greater number an individual might suffer, but this was not in Kydd’s nature – besides, these hard-bitten characters would never talk.

  But there was another way.

  On deck Kydd hailed the startled officer-of-the-watch. ‘Heave to the brig – we’re boarding.’

  Calloway was sent across with strict instructions to Lieutenant Bowden, and in short order was back with a bagful of material recovered from the captain’s quarters and cuddy. It was emptied and spread out on Kydd’s cabin table, pieces of screwed-up paper, the ship’s log, nameless scribbles, receipts.

  He called Gilbey in and they got to work. The ship’s charts had not been found, probably destroyed, which was a setback. The log was disappointing as well: although it disclosed the name of the port and even the river it was useless information – they had been hopefully called Port Bonaparte and the Josephine River.

  That left the hard way. Both officers knew intimately what they were looking for: the scratch workings of navigation for calculating a position; meridional parts, sun’s total correction and the rest. The papers were smoothed out and examined one by one, and any that had revealing figures were carefully put aside. They were in two separate hands, presumably the captain’s and the mate’s, both slapdash and difficult to follow.

  Then Gilbey had the thought that, as the vessel was approaching from the east, the workings with the longitude furthest west should be looked at first. And with that, wrested from the mass of numbers, a track emerged – which must lead to the mouth of the river. There, and repeated, was the precious information they sought: the latitude and longitude of the sec
ret base.

  Quickly they moved to the position on the chart – but this was a scaled copy of a Dutch one and showed little detail. No doubt the little river did not warrant notice but now it certainly would.

  There could be no delay. The base had to be destroyed – now.

  Kydd and Gilbey set to on a plan of action. In this instance a sizeable frigate was not an asset but she carried boats, and these could be made to go up rivers. How to equip them? Fitting for a standard cutting-out expedition or the boarding of an enemy was well practised, but attacking some sort of defensive position up an African river?

  They needed more local knowledge and one source was readily to hand. It was put to the brig’s crew that if they were helpful, their status as prisoners-of-war might well be favourably reviewed. They most readily fell in with it. But their information was limited: a sand-bar was across the mouth of the river, which required boats to be kept inside; cargo was landed on the beach and hauled over the bar to the waiting boats, then taken up-river to the base, which was a mile or so upstream. That, and – unwelcome news – an army of ten thousand Xhosa warriors camped nearby massing for the uprising.

  There was little else they could add besides the fact that a mysterious Frenchman living with the Xhosa was directing the whole operation; he was keeping the muskets and powder under guard until the French veterans arrived to issue them.

  On the face of it, the odds were ludicrous, the only possible thing in their favour being surprise.

  How to get heavy boats across the sand-bar? How to cow an army of ten thousand? How to achieve total destruction? There were just too many questions, which could only be answered with stealthy reconnaissance.

  Returning to the deck to give his orders, Kydd suddenly stopped at the problem he saw. The brig lying secure under their guns couldn’t come with them: the sight of it would arouse the base and bring unwelcome attention. However, if it was left to return to Cape Town on its own, it would have to be heavily guarded and would be an intolerable drain on the frigate’s manpower, just at the time when it was most needed.