Julian Stockwin - Conquest

Kendall knew St Helena well and, as they drew near, directed L’Aurore to pass to the west. Close to, the island was a spectacular sight: massive crags pounded by waves driven ceaselessly a thousand miles or more by the constant open-ocean trade-winds that ended their run in a thundering assault on the south-east of the island.

The interior was riven by rocky valleys; strangely, on this island it was the summits of the mountains that were clothed in verdure, the lower slopes bare and precipitous, some shrouded in cloud and mist.

‘We’ll enter t’ leeward, o’ course, sir – Jamestown on the north is where we lands,’ Kendall said confidently. ‘An’ that there’s Lot an’ His Wife,’ he added, pointing to two contorted columns of dark basalt rearing high above the broken scarp.

Rounding the sharp western extremity they passed into relative peace to leeward of the island, L’Aurore ’s barrelling roll before the wind finally easing after so many days at sea. Jamestown was marked by several ships at anchor offshore and L’Aurore did likewise, her sailors agog at the new-found land. There was no need for salutes or ceremony because this entire island, complete with its governor, was a fiefdom of the East India Company.

‘Open the hold, Mr Oakley – we’ll take aboard fresh greenstuffs and water while we’ve the chance. And let the passengers know our boat will be going ashore in one hour,’ Kydd ordered. They were carrying three gentlemen with business on the island.

He went below to prepare. There was no real necessity for him to visit: his orders were to return by way of a voyage east to Africa, then down the coast back to Cape Town, keeping a weather eye open for the tell-tale signs of a French landing. But St Helena was a strange and haunting island, set at such unimaginable remoteness – who knew if he’d be this way again? Besides, Renzi would never forgive him if he did not bring back an account.

They landed at the foot of a long, narrow valley, the town not much more than a single street. A gateway through the sea wall led them in and Kydd stood for a space, admiring the bluffs that soared five hundred feet on both sides. ‘You’re for Plantation House?’ Moore, one of the passengers, asked pleasantly.

‘The governor?’

‘Yes, Robert Patton. I’ll advise a calesa , Captain. The house is at some miles’ distance.’

At the Mule Yard they secured their conveyance. ‘The castle on the left is near crumbling with ants,’ Moore chuckled, as they ground up an incline, ‘and there is our snug Grand Parade and our steeple-less St James’s Church.’

‘Er, how old is it at all?’ Kydd asked, out of courtesy.

‘As it was building when Captain Cook chanced by. Your first visit?’

Plantation House was in the pleasantly cooler uplands, fronted by a lawn set about with myrtles and mimosa thirty feet high, an exotic mingling of bamboo and eucalyptus, laurel and cabbage tree.

Kydd walked past a giant tortoise contentedly munching grass and was politely conducted to Governor Patton, who greeted him with a warm handshake and invited him to sit in one of a pair of fine antique chairs.

‘I bring news,’ Kydd opened. ‘Cape Town is ours, and—’

‘This I know, Captain. Is it possible I have news for you ?’

‘Oh?’

‘There’s been a hard-run battle off San Domingo that’s ended the career of your Admiral Leissègues. Quite destroyed by Admiral Duckworth in as fine an action as any I’ve heard.’

This was welcome indeed. One fewer battle squadron to worry about at the very least.

‘And Admiral Willaumez has been sighted to the suth’ard . . .’

Kydd started. What the devil was such a threat doing in the south – a strike at the Cape? He stood immediately. ‘I – I must get this news to Commodore Popham.’ What could be achieved with a pair of old 64s and lesser craft would soon be put to the test.

Patton gave a reassuring smile. ‘A company schooner is already on its way, sir.’

Kydd left as soon as he decently could and made his way back aboard. L’Aurore was part of the Cape squadron and his thoughts were very much on the little outpost at the tip of the great continent in its time of lonely defiance.

And then, of course, there was Thérèse. At the ball he’d been much taken with her cool poise and striking attractiveness, which had made it irksome to sail the next day. When he returned, if she had not retreated back to her wine estate, he would most certainly pay her a call . . .

He waited impatiently until Oakley had reported stores and water aboard, then, although it was well into the first dog-watch, he ordered the ship secured for sea and they sailed into the evening to return to Cape Town.

Close-hauled on the starboard tack in the fine south-easterly trades, L’Aurore made a good crossing, raising land soon after dawn. Notorious to every sailor, the African coast at these latitudes was treacherous, desolate and unutterably remote, a burning wilderness, what the old Portuguese called a costa dos esqueletos – the coast of skeletons.

There was vanishingly little reason for the French to be here – but, then, what better place to conceal a secret refuge, a location where a fleet of ships could be assembled out of sight before making their strike south? Kydd dutifully went about and headed south, closing with the stark shore as near as he dared, keeping with the inshore south-westerly.

Through the telescope he peered out at an endless march of tawny sand dunes, shimmering in the heat behind the white line of breaking surf. Occasionally a twist of rock, a low hillock or dry wash-way caught the eye, but the unrelieved boredom of the prospect soon reduced its novelty and the seamen got on with their work with no more glances shoreward.

Shortly after the men settled to their noon meal there was a low cry from the lookout at floating wreckage across their path. It was not unknown to come across derelicts – sad, waterlogged remnants of ships abandoned in storms – and Curzon told the conn to leave it safely to leeward, but as they drew nearer sharp eyes detected movement.

The watch were set to back the fore-topsails to lose way, and as the frigate slowed, it appeared they had stumbled upon a stove-in ship’s boat with a ragged sail stretched over what looked like two bodies. As they approached, a hand threw aside a corner of the canvas and a face burned scarlet by the sun stared up, unbelieving. With an inhuman screech, the figure tried to rise but flopped sideways. Then came husky, tearing cries, piteous in their pleading.

Aroused by the noise, Kydd was soon on deck. ‘Heave to, if y’ please. Away the gig.’ At sea, his orders were to keep the small boat always at the ready in the stern davits, the watch-on-deck to man it.

With a squeal of sheaves, the gig descended and quickly pulled towards the pitiful sight, one of the figures now in a paroxysm of waving and crying. The bowman went over the side into the perilously swaying wreckage, tender hands easing the transfer, and the boat returned with its cargo of suffering humanity.

‘Sorry, sir, an’ he won’t leave the dead ’un behind,’ the coxswain apologised, while a bloated corpse was awkwardly slithered over the bulwarks. The survivor fell on the deck, alternately blubbering and giving vent to hoarse howls.

The surgeon arrived. ‘Extreme desiccation,’ he said, after no more than a cursory look. ‘I’d be surprised if he sees another dawn.’ He stood back and folded his arms.

‘Well, what’s to do, Doctor? You’ll not let him suffer?’

‘I suppose a measure of opium, water, of course, but sparing . . .’

Kydd was about to have the man taken below but paused; obviously in the last extremity of thirst, he continued with his urgent cries. And his eyes, though pits of suffering, were still rational, constantly flicking from Kydd to the others. ‘He’s trying to tell us something . . . His shipmates – he’s been sent to find help!’