Julian Stockwin - Conquest

‘I don’t understand you, sir.’

‘The claim was a subterfuge only, practised on your daughter to enable me to gain the satisfaction of learning who it was that is about to set the frontier ablaze. That has now been achieved.’

The baron stared at him, then laughed. ‘Upon my word, sir, that is rich! You’re a man of courage and spirit such as few I know.’ He chuckled again.

‘Father!’ Thérèse snarled.

‘Ah, yes.’ A shadow passed across his features. ‘It grieves me more than I can say that such a noble soul shall pay for his knowledge with his life, but with what you know, sir, you will see that it is beyond my power to preserve it. Let me assure you, however, that when the time comes it shall be done swiftly and with mercy shown.’

Renzi went cold.

‘Yet the very least we can do is offer you the pleasures of our table this night. It does pain me to observe, however, that on the morrow I expect the ship to arrive with the soldiers – no doubt it has been lately delayed by the poor weather we have been having. Or in its absence we must shift for ourselves. We shall then be very busy, as you will understand, and therefore, most regrettably, I beg you will think of this night as your last.’

True to his word, the evening passed in a blaze of colour and feasting, lines of Xhosa women dancing in the firelight, the glitter of their bangles vying with flashing eyes amid the hypnotic thunder of drums. Gourds of drink followed the devouring of roasted ox and umngqusho , a maize and bean delicacy. Tribal choirs sang full-throated melodies, lithe solo dancers writhed and gyrated, but the honours of the night went to the warrior dance – countless numbers arrayed in the full panoply of war, by their hoarse shouts and brandished weapons leaving no doubt about what was to come.

Renzi saw it only through a haze of distraction. There was no conceivable escape: two of Thérèse’s men stayed constantly within a few feet of him and the Xhosa knew full well his status – should he make a break for it, they would instantly skewer him with assegais for the kudos of bringing him down. At least the baron had promised a merciful end.

In the early hours the festivities waned and the participants streamed back to their encampment. Visibly embarrassed, the baron bade him goodnight. Renzi was escorted to a hut and guards posted. He was left alone on a rush bed with his thoughts for the time that remained to him.

In the last hour of the night a small line of grave-featured witnesses called for him: the baron, Thérèse, and the inevitable heavy-set brutes, each carrying a flaming torch that illuminated the scene pitilessly.

‘It is time, sir. Are you ready?’ The baron carried a small, ornately chased box, which Renzi recognised. So it was to be a pistol.

He looked up at the vast profusion of stars. In such a short while they would fade as the day stole in – one that he would never see. ‘As ready as any mortal can be,’ he said, without emotion.

‘Er, most would wish that it be carried out privily, away from prurient eyes. Do you have any preference, Mr Secretary?’

‘Yes, Baron. I have a yen that my last sight shall be of the sea. Is this at all possible?’

‘I’m desolated to have to refuse you – that’s over a mile or so away. Perhaps a fine view of the river – it does join with the sea, after all.’

‘Then that must suffice.’

The little party started out down a path by the barbarous light of the torches and then the baron paused, turned, and said firmly, ‘Not for your eyes, my dear. I shall be back presently.’

‘A pity,’ she said callously. ‘I’d hoped to hear him beg for his life.’

Chapter 14

‘We were gulled,’ Kydd said in a low voice. To use the captured vessel’s own reckoning to find the base had seemed foolproof. ‘Take us back to the brig, Mr Kendall.’

The master hesitated, shuffling awkwardly. ‘Sir, it’s not f’r me to criticise, but in setting up y’r workings, did ye get a sight o’ the charts they had?’

‘No, the rascals destroyed ’em.’

‘Well, here’s a possibility as ye might think on . . .’

‘Yes, Mr Kendall.’

‘If the brig’s really out o’ Mauritius or some such, then they’ll be using Frenchy charts.’

‘And?’

‘All their reckoning will be with those charts – which, in course, uses the Paris meridian.’

It hit Kydd like a thunderbolt. ‘O’ course! Damn it to blazes!’

It was so obvious, once brought to mind. All British charts had the line dividing the eastern and western hemisphere – 0P of longitude – passing through the Greenwich Observatory in London. The French had theirs running through Paris. Therefore any given figure of longitude would be off by the difference, probably some hundreds of miles.

Kydd retrieved the situation in seconds. With the longitude of Paris being precisely 2° 21′ 3″ to the east of London, this correction was applied to the figures and they had a position near a day’s sail away to the west. ‘Well done, Mr Kendall! We’ll flush ’em yet.’

Next morning they raised a serrated mountain and later the other sea-marks came gloriously together at the new position, hardly needing the brig crew’s confirmation. As L’Aurore sailed serenely past, half a dozen telescopes were up on the quarterdeck, eagerly sweeping over the shore to take in every detail possible, for it was vital the frigate continued on her way without showing any sign of interest.

It was a perfect hiding place; in the unremarkable and characterless coast the entrance to the river and its sand-bar were barely visible, any secret base well concealed.

L’Aurore sailed on until two headlands separated her from the river mouth, then went to a buoyed single anchor as though snugging down for the night.

Kydd turned to his first lieutenant. ‘Mr Gilbey, I desire you shall find me a poacher.’

‘Er?’

‘Come, come, sir! As premier you are best placed to know our ship’s company. Find me a young lad who knows well his pheasants and hares.’

‘I, um – aye aye, sir.’

It took the additional good offices of Kydd’s coxswain, however, to discover the talents of the shy Leicestershire lad the lower deck called Buttons, down on the ship’s books as Ordinary Seaman Harmer.

Kydd then summoned Sergeant Dodd. The perplexed marine was hailed aft and told to find more suitable clothing than his fine red coat for an important mission ashore.

‘Now, call away the whaler for sailing, Mr Gilbey – I shall be undertaking a reconnaissance with Dodd and Harmer. You shall remain aboard in command.’

‘Sir, you can’t—’

‘I can and I will. You’ll have my written orders.’ If he was going to make decisions that sent his men into peril he wanted to see for himself.

In the face of Tysoe’s vigorous protests, his captain was clothed in old seamen’s togs. The stout-hearted sergeant donned the cooper’s work clothes. With young Buttons red-faced at the honour, the whaler was manned and rigged. Poulden took charge and the little boat shoved off.

Leaving the reassuring familiarity and size of the frigate brought a cold wash of reality. They were proposing to trespass on a territory held by an army of ten thousand no less! Only the thought that the enemy would believe it preposterous that any would seek to challenge such a horde made this mission possible.

They laid course for the first headland, staying just outside the line of breakers until they were in its lee, then raced through the surf until they grounded with a spectacular rush.

‘Out!’ Kydd ordered. The three members of the shore party raced up the beach and into the scrub, where they hunkered down, aware of the strange but pleasant fragrance of the sparse vegetation above the odour of hot sand.