Julian Stockwin - Conquest

‘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.

‘No. A good plan – and will never work.’

‘Oh?’

‘The soldiers will be curious why you water at night. The road to the top, ver’ steep, ver’ long. You never do this in time. An’ peoples will see.’

‘Then we’ll have to—’

‘No, man, we can fix.’ M’Bembe reflected for a moment then said, ‘I like your plan. This what we do.’

The timing was perfect. As the sun went down over Hartenbos peak in Mossel Bay a well-known livestock coaster doused her sails and found a place among the scatter of fishing boats off the beach.

The boat-boys sang cheerfully as they rafted the water-barrels together alongside, then seemed to think better of working into the night and instead set up an awning and lantern on the after-deck for an evening’s conviviality.

As the warm violet dusk faded into night, anyone looking closely might have made out a few figures busy with block and tackle on the opposite side who had not yet joined the party. But before it could get under way there was an irritated bellow from the beach. It seemed that there would be no slacking until the water-casks had been brought ashore ready.

The little double-ended boat was manned, Lieutenant Bowden himself taking an oar and suppressing a giggle at the sight of other L’Aurore seamen disguised in low conical hats, faces and limbs well daubed with galley soot, and muttering under their breath at the indignity.

The raft was ponderous and slow with the weight of the concealed gun but, of course, these were resentful sailors not about to exert themselves unduly and it was pitch dark before the gun grounded and was dragged ashore.