Julian Stockwin - Conquest

While the ringing words sounded the length and breadth of the cathedral, the steward, comptroller and treasurer of Nelson’s household solemnly snapped their staves of office and threw them on to the coffin, stepping back to allow the seamen with the colours to spread the flag as a pall in a last act – but, before the horrified gaze of the princes of heraldry, they did not. Instead they ripped and tore at the flag until each bore away something to retain of the commander they had adored. A rippling murmur of understanding arose from the pews.

The organ, played by a pupil of Mozart, again filled the air with a grand and melancholy piece and the coffin sank from sight to its rest.

It was over.

‘The price of victory was too high, I’m to believe,’ Stanhope said, his tone subdued as though still under thrall to what they had seen.

Baron Grenville raised his glass in solemn salute. ‘It must be admitted, dear chap. Lost to his country at the very moment of his triumph. I do hope the people won’t forget him now he’s gone, poor fellow.’

In the opulent drawing room a large fire was the only cheerful presence among the murmuring, black-decked throng gathered there after the burial. ‘I saw that your cousin did not attend,’ Stanhope reflected. ‘I know the man would have been there if it had been possible, so must only conclude that the waters in Bath have not effected a relief.’

That cousin was William Pitt, prime minister of Great Britain and known to be gravely ill. Grenville sighed. ‘It grieves me to say it, but I’m sanguine he’s not to be long for this world either – days at most. He’s much cast down since hearing of the cost of Trafalgar – and so soon following, that damnable rout at Austerlitz.’

‘If there is a tragic outcome, in these dolorous times the King will wish to form a government with all expedition. And if Hawkesbury declines – as I believe he will – then His Majesty will peradventure call upon your own good self, dear fellow.’

‘I must allow it, Frederick.’

‘Have you . . . ?’

Grenville gave a lopsided smile. ‘An impossibility to conjure a world without a Pitt, as all must declare. I have a mind to gather in a ministry of all the talents, as it were. I shall bring back Windham as secretary of war, young Charles Grey comes to mind for the Admiralty, and Fox – well, he’ll be cock o’ hoop to be made foreign secretary. Oh, and that freelance intemperate Richard Brinsley Sheridan, why, I’ll make sure his energies are absorbed as treasurer of the Navy – plenty of accounts to pore over, what?’

Stanhope paused at the jocular tone. ‘You’re not, who might say, overcome at the prospect? I rather fancy your greatest challenge will not be in domestic politics, my friend.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course, the war.’

Frowning, Stanhope continued, ‘The Tsar and Austrians beaten squarely in the field – it means the utter ruin of the Coalition – and with the Russians withdrawing over the border and Emperor Francis treating for a peace we’re left where we started, without a single friend. I can only see as our crowning challenge the prosecuting of this war when all the chancelleries of Europe are against us.’

Grenville sobered. ‘Old horse, don’t take on so. You’re forgetting that things have changed now. Nelson may be gone but he did his duty – the French are driven from the seas. Your Napoleon can rage up and down all he likes, but with our blockade he’s securely locked up in Europe and we hold the key.’

He smiled expansively. ‘And while Bonaparte’s thus impotent we’ve got that sea as a royal road to every French colony and possession. Don’t you see, Frederick? While we pluck his pieces one by one, the way lies open for us to create an empire such as the world has never seen.’

‘While we rule the seas.’

‘Quite. And, mark you, the process is already under way.’

‘The Cape?’

‘Indeed.’

‘ If they prevail in an opposed landing, and if they can sustain themselves in such a barbarous country, and if . . .’

Chapter 5

The sun beat down on the soldiers forming up on the castle parade-ground. Baird had been insistent that, for the march of occupation into Cape Town, full regimentals would be worn and every opportunity taken for display. ‘Find a pair of carriages,’ he growled at his aide. ‘I shall ride in the first, my commanders in the second.’

The Dutch governor’s open carriage was brought out, still emblazoned with the arms of the Batavian Republic on its side. Another arrived and the parade formed up, led by the full panoply of a massed pipe band of the Scottish Highland regiments and followed by one thousand soldiers.

Kydd boarded the second carriage with the senior military, and they set off to the heady squeal and drone of the pipes, the skitter and thump of drums ahead, and the regular measured tread of the soldiers behind. It felt so unreal for him, Thomas Kydd of Guildford, to be in Africa, in such circumstances of pomp and occasion, to be admired – or hated – by the crowds as though he were a potentate.

With Baird in regal solitude, the parade moved away, finding its rhythm as it crossed the vast parade-ground. Then the drum major signalled a left turn into a broad avenue leading to Cape Town proper.

Kydd sat alert: would the conquering army be greeted with violence or resignation? As they passed characterful white-painted residences and imposing stone buildings on the long, straight roads, people began to gather: not sullen masses or threatening crowds but curious African labourers, a huisvrouw with a shopping basket, couples in a style of dress not at all out of place for the England of twenty years ago, multitudes clearly just about their daily business.

They marched on. More arrived, standing on street corners, spellbound at the show. Here and there Kydd saw a Dutchman on his stoop in an easy-chair enjoying a long pipe and pointedly ignoring the invaders.

An immensely long span of oxen crossed ahead, causing the drum major to step short, but nowhere was there any sign of disorder or insurrection: in its normality there was almost a sense of anticlimax.

With the whirling of an ornate baton and flourish of drumsticks, the parade came to a halt in a square outside an imposing double-storeyed white building. Kydd supposed the dozen or more men standing there apprehensively were town worthies.

Baird descended from his carriage and approached them; words and extravagant bows were exchanged. As he returned to his carriage a detachment of redcoats marched forward purposefully and took an on-guard position at either side of the entrance.

The bands struck up and the parade moved on towards a long, spacious garden and stopped abreast a palatial mansion. Baird descended again. With numbers of interested onlookers gathering on the road to witness events, a party of servants headed by a nervous major-domo presented themselves. Baird nodded in acknowledgement, then turned and indicated that those in the second carriage should join him. ‘Government House,’ he grunted. ‘I rather think I should show appreciation.’

Flanked by his commanders, the new governor of Cape Town went to claim his residence. The cool of its rooms was very welcome and the glasses of chilled champagne even more so. Baird relaxed a little. ‘Well, gentlemen. It does seem we shall not be assailed by vengeful Dutchmen, which is a mercy. General Ferguson, I desire you shall give orders as will see your troops march off and be posted at the lesser places within the town until further orders.’

He drained his glass and beamed. ‘So, here we are. I am now the colonial governor. What shall be first?’