Julian Stockwin - Conquest

A low curse and a frighteningly loud wooden squealing and jingle of harness came out of the night as the promised ox-wagon came over the sand, animal snorts with the rank smell of the barnyard heavy on the air.

The squat bronze gun was small but heavy; hidden in a square box, it was satisfactorily anonymous. Ropes were brought and it was heaved around to the tail of the cart. More men jumped down to help, their white teeth showing as they grinned in delight at being part of the adventure.

Suddenly two soldiers materialised out of the blackness and asked suspiciously, ‘ Wat doen jy ?’ All movement ceased.

An easy chuckle came from the drover. ‘ Het hulle jou nie vertel nie ?’ He sauntered up and held out a packet. The soldiers muttered between themselves, then took it, waving them on before they left.

‘Quick!’ the drover hissed. The gun was heaved into the wagon with nervous energy, the cart settling with a thunderous creak. The boat arrived with the carriage and five heavy bags – shells and charges.

Bowden hauled himself up to the seat next to the drover. ‘How did you—’

‘Gave him bung for Hooft,’ the drover said, lightly cracking his whip over the leading oxen, which stolidly started the wagon in motion.

Curiously he asked, ‘Er, how much did you give him?’

‘A lot – of ol’ paper!’ he chortled. The ox-wagon dipped and swayed as it ground up a steeply sloping road into the night.

Some miles past Mossel Bay L’Aurore came to and anchored in ten fathoms. Kydd was taking a grave risk by stripping the frigate of every last man save a token five; all had a crucial role in a very few hours and to hold back could be fatal.

One by one the ship’s boats pulled ashore, landing the L’Aurore ’s at the end of a wide beach, which marked the beginning of the heights above Mossel Bay. Kydd had the men mustered and they set out up a steep track into the African dusk, led by guides, the Royal Marines following and insisting on marching in proper form.

Sweating in the hot night, Kydd was thankful when they reached the top. Following the guides, they swung right and moved out on a turtle-back of high ground. Beneath, the lights of the settlement twinkled, but the massive dark bulk of the fort lay closer.

Now all depended on Bowden’s arrival. It was not until a bare hour before dawn that the unmistakable sound of the ox-wagon intruded into the stillness from the other direction. The men positioned themselves in accordance with orders, hunkered down and out of sight of the fort.

The howitzer was assembled, the gun crew hand-picked by the gunner’s mate. Kydd waited patiently. As soon as it was light, the howitzer was carefully sited and loaded, and when the faint sound of the reveille sounded on the still air, he gave the first order. The ugly little gun banged angrily into the morning peace and, seconds later, a shell exploded short of the rear wall of the fort.

The distant trumpet’s sound was cut off, as if with a knife. Moments later it was urgently baying the call to arms.

Another shell detonated close to one side. ‘Easy, Mr Stirk – this only to wake ’em up.’

After the third, men were at the embrasures to repel the mysterious attackers from inland, then began issuing out and massing for a counter-attack.

Time for the final order. Kydd stood and gave the signal. As one, L’Aurore ’s entire complement, seamen, marines, every man and boy in her crew, dressed in anything that was red, slowly stood up – and all along the skyline, hundreds of English redcoats could be seen forming line for a merciless attack from the unprotected direction.

The effect was instant: in moments there was not a man left outside the walls of the fort.

Another shell burst close, its smoke wreathing the air and wafting back over the defenders.

‘Last round, sir.’ It duly banged out, but its effect was decisive. As Kydd watched, the colours were jerked down in ignominious defeat.

Chapter 7

‘Ah, Renzi – I’d like you to meet Mijnheer Willem van Ryneveld,’ Baird said jovially, although his eyes remained cool and appraising. ‘In the last government under Janssens he was head man, as, who’s to say, their fiscal. Sir, this is Mr Nicholas Renzi, our colonial secretary.’

Civil bows were exchanged and, murmuring a greeting, Renzi took in the neat and intelligent features, the sharp beard and restrained but stylish dress.

‘Shall you entertain Mr Ryneveld, old fellow?’ Baird went on. ‘I’m to consult on military matters this morning, I believe.’

It was prearranged, but Renzi pretended to be taken by surprise and suggested a walk outside in the early-morning air. ‘I do suppose there’s much to consider,’ he said, affecting a leisurely stroll.

‘Yes, Mr Renzi,’ Ryneveld said, in a quiet and precise tone, falling into step beside him.

Renzi hesitated. This was a crucial time: if the previous ruling class took against them, their position would be untenable. If, on the other hand, concessions were offered, would it be taken as a sign of weakness?

His task was to sound out the chief figure in the previous administration, get a view on the distribution of allegiances and delicately allude to the advantages of co-operation.

He stopped to admire the rearing bulk of Table Mountain, so close. ‘Such a magnificent prospect, Mr Ryneveld,’ he said. ‘A sight to transport the Romantics to ecstasy!’

The man stood attentive, but silent.

‘And how curious it is that the mountains in Africa rear out of the earth so very abruptly,’ Renzi continued. There was still the same polite attention as he added, ‘Is this perhaps why we can so easily distinguish ranges at a distance, with none other to obtrude?’

He let the question hang and eventually Ryneveld answered: ‘Singular, perhaps. I’ve heard that the Great Winterhoek is still visible at eighty miles.’

They reached the end of the parade-ground and turned together. Then Renzi saw a tiny ghost of a smile. He couldn’t help but grin back and they chuckled. The ice had been broken.

‘Shall we talk?’ Ryneveld said.

‘By all means.’

‘Then I’d hazard that if I should be so impertinent as to make query as to the intentions of the new order, you would be exercised as to how these might be implemented.’

Renzi allowed a measure of concern to enter his voice. ‘The colony faces hunger and danger – common humanity demands we come to an understanding.’

‘Then might I know how your governance is to be achieved?’ Ryneveld asked cautiously.

‘I cannot speak for General Baird—’

‘Of course.’

‘– yet I do sense that he appreciates the care and tolerance of the Dutch in their past administration and is minded to emulate it.’

‘A pity if that were so.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Renzi said in surprise.

‘The previous establishment – the Batavians – were in thrall to Bonaparte, who controls their nation. Decisions here were not necessarily taken in our best interests. Shall you?’

‘Sir, our purpose here is not in the character of conqueror. We are, as it were, obliged to make landing and occupation in order to prevent the French from seizing a strategic position that would enable them to sever our trade routes to India, nothing more.’

‘That much is apparent, sir.’

‘Therefore it is not in prospect to exploit the colony for its manufactories or resources.’ Renzi paused, then said significantly, ‘Which supposes our best course is to allow the continuance of the system of government that prevails.’

He saw an unmistakable gleam of interest. ‘This to include the code of law, currency, rights of property – what say you, sir, to a restoration of all the traditional customs and trade practices as have been in place in Cape Town for these centuries past?’