Julian Stockwin - Conquest

So devilish! So well planned – and it had turned out that the delivery of these soldiers to direct the native army was the final move before the frontier was set aflame. With so much at stake, no wonder Africaine had been sent as escort, and so desperate to see the brig to its final destination and do all it could to prevent word of their presence getting out.

None the less, the brig’s capture would soon become known and replacements sent. The only sure way to prevent the inevitable was to destroy the base and its weapons.

‘This is deadly important,’ Kydd said, with intensity. ‘We must find this port and wipe it out before everything takes fire. Did your friend say where it was?’

‘No good askin’ him,’ Stirk said sorrowfully. ‘He ain’t got the navigation. Says as it’s up a river, is all.’

To search every inlet, every river, in the south of Africa was out of the question. Should he put pressure on the officers? Renzi’s logic would say that for the good of the greater number an individual might suffer, but this was not in Kydd’s nature – besides, these hard-bitten characters would never talk.

But there was another way.

On deck Kydd hailed the startled officer-of-the-watch. ‘Heave to the brig – we’re boarding.’

Calloway was sent across with strict instructions to Lieutenant Bowden, and in short order was back with a bagful of material recovered from the captain’s quarters and cuddy. It was emptied and spread out on Kydd’s cabin table, pieces of screwed-up paper, the ship’s log, nameless scribbles, receipts.

He called Gilbey in and they got to work. The ship’s charts had not been found, probably destroyed, which was a setback. The log was disappointing as well: although it disclosed the name of the port and even the river it was useless information – they had been hopefully called Port Bonaparte and the Josephine River.

That left the hard way. Both officers knew intimately what they were looking for: the scratch workings of navigation for calculating a position; meridional parts, sun’s total correction and the rest. The papers were smoothed out and examined one by one, and any that had revealing figures were carefully put aside. They were in two separate hands, presumably the captain’s and the mate’s, both slapdash and difficult to follow.

Then Gilbey had the thought that, as the vessel was approaching from the east, the workings with the longitude furthest west should be looked at first. And with that, wrested from the mass of numbers, a track emerged – which must lead to the mouth of the river. There, and repeated, was the precious information they sought: the latitude and longitude of the secret base.

Quickly they moved to the position on the chart – but this was a scaled copy of a Dutch one and showed little detail. No doubt the little river did not warrant notice but now it certainly would.

There could be no delay. The base had to be destroyed – now.

Kydd and Gilbey set to on a plan of action. In this instance a sizeable frigate was not an asset but she carried boats, and these could be made to go up rivers. How to equip them? Fitting for a standard cutting-out expedition or the boarding of an enemy was well practised, but attacking some sort of defensive position up an African river?

They needed more local knowledge and one source was readily to hand. It was put to the brig’s crew that if they were helpful, their status as prisoners-of-war might well be favourably reviewed. They most readily fell in with it. But their information was limited: a sand-bar was across the mouth of the river, which required boats to be kept inside; cargo was landed on the beach and hauled over the bar to the waiting boats, then taken up-river to the base, which was a mile or so upstream. That, and – unwelcome news – an army of ten thousand Xhosa warriors camped nearby massing for the uprising.

There was little else they could add besides the fact that a mysterious Frenchman living with the Xhosa was directing the whole operation; he was keeping the muskets and powder under guard until the French veterans arrived to issue them.

On the face of it, the odds were ludicrous, the only possible thing in their favour being surprise.

How to get heavy boats across the sand-bar? How to cow an army of ten thousand? How to achieve total destruction? There were just too many questions, which could only be answered with stealthy reconnaissance.

Returning to the deck to give his orders, Kydd suddenly stopped at the problem he saw. The brig lying secure under their guns couldn’t come with them: the sight of it would arouse the base and bring unwelcome attention. However, if it was left to return to Cape Town on its own, it would have to be heavily guarded and would be an intolerable drain on the frigate’s manpower, just at the time when it was most needed.

Sink it? Let it go? Maroon the soldiers? Wreck it ashore? The answer was laughably simple. ‘Mr Calloway. My instructions to Lieutenant Bowden are that he anchors offshore and his sailing crew does return with you in the brig’s boats. Clear?’

It caused much merriment among the boat’s crew, and renewed respect for their captain when they realised what he’d done. Aboard the brig, the soldiers were to be left quite at liberty to do as they pleased, with not a single guard to trouble them. They could eat, drink and make merry as they wished, only one thing denied them: as hopeless landlubbers they could not move the vessel an inch and without boats had every incentive to keep their prison safely afloat until L’Aurore returned to claim them.

‘Let’s be about our business. Mr Kendall, I desire we should be in this position at dawn, if you please.’ This would give Kydd the night hours to review his options.

By the time the grey of dawn was stealing over the sea he still had no plan. An assault from the river by boats shipping a carronade? The Royal Marines holding up the army while the seamen set fire to the buildings, whatever they were?

Keyed up, Kydd waited impatiently for the distant coastline to firm. When close enough they would pass slowly by, positively identifying the river mouth before anchoring well out of sight, ready for the final act. He had done as much as he could. Now for the reconnaissance that would provide the vital detail to enable an assault plan to be put in place.

‘Coming up to position, sir,’ Kendall said quietly.

‘Thank you,’ Kydd replied, and brought up his telescope. With local information gained from the brig’s crew, they had hand-drawn a chart of the river mouth and approaches and he knew what to look for – a low swirl in the sand-hills with, on the left, a characteristic rise topped with two trees and a crumbling hut to the right, and in the distance a serrated mountain range.

He scanned the shore carefully, but the flat coast, with its undulating, scrubby hillocks, went on and on without a break. Frowning, Kydd ordered the ship in nearer the land and continued. Without result. No discontinuity in the featureless shoreline, not even a mountain range in the distance. One mile – five, ten. Nothing. He and Gilbey had checked their reasoning, were confident of their results, and with two independent workings to go with . . .

‘Put about – we’ll try on the other side.’ If the brig was out in its reckoning it would only be minutes of longitude, no more than a few miles. It had to be close. L’Aurore came around and took up in the opposite direction, holding her course until she passed the expected position. Then she stood on for a mile, two, more – but it was obvious to everyone aboard that the secret of the base was going to stay that way.

There was no other conclusion than that they had been utterly and comprehensively fooled.