Julian Stockwin - Conquest

He saw his chance: he would seize one of the vertical top timbers of the jetty and pull himself over. The bow approached, touched, and he sprang for the upright, heaving up with all his strength. The barge fell away immediately – but suddenly there was a rending crack of old timber and he dropped to his waist in the swash of the next wave.

Energised by anger, he performed a topman’s trick, rotating to let his feet walk up as he hauled in on the sagging timber until he could twist up and on to the ramshackle decking, in the process losing his gold-laced cocked hat to the waves.

He straightened, trying to fix a smile as he faced the five rather quaint-looking soldiers and their elderly officer, who had wisely not ventured out on the old jetty. A moment of mutual incomprehension passed, and then a quavering but jaunty air arose from the fife-player.

Sloshing forward, Kydd approached the little group, the smile still fixed. The officer drew his sword and energetically saluted him, his gaze carefully averted. Without a hat to raise and feeling more than a little mutinous, Kydd bowed shortly.

Knowing that the Batavians and French were allies he declared importantly, ‘ Je transmets les salutations de sa majesté le roi George , et les frères néerlandais, félicitations— ’

‘Do you come from the Grand Admiraal Nelson, sir?’ the officer asked abruptly, in English.

Nettled, Kydd ignored the question. ‘I am here to treat with your fort commandant on an important matter. Be so good as to take me to him.’ His wet clothes clung annoyingly.

‘I am he,’ the officer admitted, the sword-point drooping a little. ‘Ritmeester Francken. And these are my men.’

‘Ah. Captain Thomas Kydd, my ship L’Aurore of thirty-two guns,’ he said, indicating the frigate nobly at anchor out in the bay. ‘May we go to your fort to discuss a delicate matter, sir?’

‘We must surrender to you, hein ?’ Francken asked politely.

Kydd blinked, then collected himself. ‘Er, shall we go to the fort?’

‘ Het spijt – and it’s not fit for such as you , sir,’ Francken said admiringly.

Kydd took his arm and propelled him away from the gaping onlookers. ‘You’ve heard of Blaauwberg?’

‘Sadly, yes. The fishermen. Sir, are you sure you’re not sent by Admiraal Nelson at all?’

It was becoming clear. ‘He has other business and asks me to treat with the gallant defenders directly. Sir, do you—’

‘Certainly. But with the conditions.’

‘Sir, you lie helpless under our guns! And you talk of conditions ?’

Francken drew himself up. ‘I must insist,’ he said stiffly. ‘Sir – we are a nation of honour! I cannot allow—’

‘Very well. What are these conditions? Be aware that I cannot speak for my commander-in-chief should these terms be adverse to His Majesty’s arms.’

Stubbornly, the officer tried to explain. Eventually Kydd understood. He excused himself and went once more to the jetty. ‘One boatkeeper,’ he bellowed to his barge laying off. ‘The rest to step ashore.’ A shame-faced urchin came up with his sodden hat, retrieved from the breakers, which he shook and clapped on, glowering.

The boat’s crew scrambled up and assembled behind Kydd. He bowed to the officer and turned to address his bewildered men. ‘Stand up straight, y’ scurvy villains!’ he growled. ‘We’re about to take a surrender from the Dutch but he’s insisting on a good show in front of the locals. We’ve no Jollies right now so you’ll have to do.’

Stirk caught on quickest and wasted no time in hurrying out to take charge as ‘sergeant’.

‘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! ’