Julian Stockwin - Conquest

‘Er, I . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘It would be better if . . .’

‘If?’ Kydd said, making a show of impatience.

Enrique turned to one of his men and muttered an order. The man gave a lopsided smile, padded off forward, knocked sharply at the fore-companionway and stood aside.

There was movement and the door swung open. One by one, blinking in the bright sunshine and dripping with sweat from their confinement, a stream of soldiers came up from below – a dozen or more, officers and sergeants, each in the unmistakable colour of French infantry of the line.

They glanced bitterly at the graceful frigate and its naked guns lying off and stood stiffly before Kydd. ‘Poncelot, Chef de Bataillon de Chasseurs de la Réunion,’ the oldest said haughtily. His face had cruel lines and held a barely contained rage.

The man had no choice in the manner of his surrender, no gallant stand against great odds, no hot-blooded declarations, simply a bald recognition of impotence, a species of checkmate, but Kydd was unmoved. He needed to know just what a senior infantry officer was doing aboard a lowly brig. And the others: each soldier as he emerged looked hard and experienced, some of Napoleon’s finest, not the raw colonial troops to be expected in the French Indian Ocean islands – another piece of the puzzle.

Kydd bowed, as custom dictated. ‘Captain Kydd of His Majesty’s Frigate L’Aurore . I’m obliged to inform you that by the fortune of war this ship stands taken and its company are now prisoners-of-war. As you may notice, our force is overwhelming and resistance is therefore not possible.’

Poncelot smouldered. ‘What are your conditions?’

‘How many are you?’ Kydd countered.

‘Fifty in all.’

‘Then, in the circumstances, as a gesture of honour, the officers may keep their swords but the men must drop their weapons over the side.’

‘Very well. In the face of impossible odds we do capitulate.’

Kydd bowed again.

The merchant ship carried no colours to be hauled down and these soldiers’ standards or whatever were, no doubt, in their baggage; there would be no ceremonials to please the Royal Marines. Kydd signalled to Curzon to come aboard. ‘Post guards where you see fit, and after these soldiers have thrown their weapons in the sea, keep them on deck while you do a thorough search below in case any have been, um, overlooked.’

‘Aye aye, sir. Er, might one ask how you knew that—’

‘Not every challenge in war is met with powder-smoke, Mr Curzon.’ Nevertheless Kydd was gratified at his lieutenant’s look of amazement and respect.

He turned to the French officer. ‘My condolences on your misfortune, sir. Do let us take a little wine together. The captain’s quarters?’

The cynical smile on the Frenchman showed that he knew full well Kydd’s intention, and he sat in rigid silence in the homely little cabin.

‘Sir, it does cross my mind it’s a singular thing that an experienced and honourable officer such as yourself is only afforded passage in such a humble vessel. For a long voyage surely this is too much to be borne,’ Kydd began.

Poncelot stared at him mutely, his lips curled in contempt. Kydd held back his irritation. It was going to be difficult, if not impossible, to pry any information from this man. How could he secure evidence of the secret army, the uncovering of a grand plot, an admission of intent against Cape Town?

‘The armies of France are victorious throughout Europe, but it is in the colonies that they fail,’ he continued, in a sympathetic tone. ‘Is it because there’s no glory to be won in these parts?’

There was no response. Muffled splashes and plunges announced that the arms were now being dropped overside.

Kydd was frustrated: L’Aurore would now have to accompany the brig as prize back to Cape Town. There was enough evidence to reveal French chicanery, but on such a small scale. Would it be enough to mollify his superiors?

He tried again, but was met with the same mocking silence.

Something was afoot but there was nothing to suggest it had anything to do with a secret army. So few troops: it made no sense, any more than that these were all battle-hardened veterans.

‘We sail for Cape Town immediately,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll remind you that you’ll be constantly under the guns of my frigate, but in so far as there is no interfering with the navigation of this ship, your men will not be confined. Any attempt at a rising will result in their instant restraint in fetters below decks. Is that clear, sir?’

He got to his feet, angry at not having thought of some cunning ruse to weasel the man’s secrets from him. Poncelot rose too, with a slight bow and clicking of heels in the continental way, still with his maddening smirk. What was he missing?

It was a straightforward enough task to ready the brig for sea. Bowden was appointed prizemaster and old Teazers, sailors from Kydd’s first command, a similarly rigged vessel, were sent over to replace its crew, who were hauled aboard L’Aurore . Night hails and countersigns were issued, sea-bags swung into boats and the little convoy put to sea.

Kydd went to his cabin to write his dispatch. Dissatisfied with the wording, he went up for air, frowning at the anonymous low coastline slowly passing. Stirk was supervising his mate’s crew at work on a carronade and looked up at Kydd’s arrival, touching his forehead with a pleased grin.

Then Gilbey came up hesitantly beside him and doffed his hat. ‘Sir, I’m t’ say I stand well chided for m’ lack o’ faith.’

‘As so you should.’

‘A brig an’ fifty Frog lobsterbacks – a good day’s work, I believe.’

‘No,’ Kydd replied curtly. ‘Not so. There’s villainy afoot and I got nothing about it out of the Frenchman. Something wicked – we’re having to leave it astern and it damn well sticks in my throat.’

He turned on his heel and went below to resume the dispatch. As he finished his work, there was a soft knock at the door.

It was Curzon, with a sailor standing a little way behind him. ‘Gunner’s Mate Stirk, sir. Wishes a word.’

‘Very well.’

Tobias Stirk padded in, remaining standing but with a wolfish smile. His bare feet and big splayed toes on the chequered floor-cloth brought a smothered grin from Kydd in remembrance of times past.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Stirk?’

‘Ah. It’s just t’ say I overheard what ye said t’ Mr Gilbey about the mongseer not bein’ straight wi’ ye an’ all. Thought it not right, he a Frenchy. So me an’ Wong just had an interestin’ yatter wi’ one o’ the brig’s quartermasters. A bit shy at first, but we got there in th’ end.’

‘He’s not, as who’s to say, damaged at all?’

‘He’ll recover, Mr Kydd.’ Stirk grunted dismissively. ‘Now here’s what he let on about. Seems this is their third an’ final voyage out o’ Mauritius wi’ cargo f’r some sort o’ rat-hole along the coast. First they lands muskets, then powder an’ now a parcel o’ soldiers t’ finish with.’

A secret base! This was more like it. ‘Where is this, er, port?’

‘Ain’t a port as ye’d know it, sir, more like up a river out o’ sight, jury-rigged like.’

‘Go on.’

‘They’s to land their gaff, hand it over t’ some cove who he’s heard is goin’ t’ rouse up the blacks b’ givin’ ’em muskets against us. Right scareful, he says, they bein’ such a fierce bunch o’ cannibals an’ all.’

Kydd felt a rising excitement – but there must be more to it. Then he realised that if there was a big enough insurgence, there would be no alternative but to send a strong force to quell it, leaving Cape Town open to a direct assault.