Conquest Page 12

  ‘Confidential secretary to Captain Kydd, Dasher. You’ll probably not be aware he’s something in the philosophical line, corresponds with Count Rumford and others in London.’

  ‘A philosopher clerk? We’ll be tackling high problems as will be requiring more than a mort of discretion.’

  ‘I’ve placed my trust in Mr Renzi, old chap. I desire him to be privy to our discussions. Now we’ve pressing business – shall we get on with it?

  ‘The first.’ Baird waited until he had their attention. ‘I’ve just this morning discovered the true reason for their abrupt yielding of the town.’

  He grinned mirthlessly. ‘Simple. Cape Town is within three weeks of capitulation by starvation.’

  There was a stunned silence. ‘After a catastrophic failure of the harvest the total amount of grain in store does not exceed two days’ consumption, and external supply by the Batavians has been very effectively discouraged by fright of our navy.’

  He broke through the murmurs of concern and added, ‘Which places us in a near impossible situation. Not only have we the entire population to feed but thousands of useless mouths – our prisoners-of-war, Dutch and French, who may not be suffered to go at liberty.’

  He gave an expectant look across the room. ‘General Ferguson?’

  ‘Send out to the farms, seize the corn stocks,’ the old soldier growled. ‘It’s their skins we’re saving.’

  ‘Except that the grain regions are dominated by Janssens’s army, which has moved into the Stellenbosch. We can count on nothing from the country – is it expected we’ll be starved into quitting?’

  ‘God forbid. No, we must send out for supply.’

  ‘The nearest friendly settlements are St Helena and Madras. I shall certainly dispatch ships there for flour and rice but, gentlemen, these are weeks distant, are they not?’

  ‘Simon’s Town. Isn’t it some sort of victualling post?’ Dr Munro offered.

  ‘It is,’ Popham said, ‘but still lies in the hands of the enemy, guarded by a ship-of-the-line no less. I’m having a frigate call but am not sanguine about the outcome.’

  There was a reflective quiet, then Baird said mildly, ‘Therefore it’s in my contemplation to release the fleet immediately to proceed to India, as was planned in the event of a successful outcome to our expedition.’

  ‘What – now?’ Popham was dismayed. ‘David, this requires I detach escorts in the face of a French retaliation. I cannot guarantee—’

  ‘Noted. It’s imperative, you’ll agree, either to increase our grain stocks or substantially reduce numbers of those on government corn. Failing the first, I’m obliged to accept the latter.’

  Ferguson looked up bleakly. ‘Losing troops when there’s an army at large opposing us?’

  ‘I’m keeping back elements of the Seventy-fourth and Eighty-third as will take the field against Janssens for an early accounting.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And the India fleet sails now.’

  Popham frowned, but refrained from comment.

  ‘Very well. The next point is security. We have Cape Town. My best information suggests there are some twenty-eight forts and batteries in the outlying districts. My intent is to severally reduce these before moving on Janssens – and, General Ferguson, you will oblige me by presenting a plan for so doing.’

  He glanced at Popham and smiled. ‘The Navy is our ever-present bulwark and a comfort to all to see anchored there in the Roads. All matters marine accordingly I’m grateful to leave with the distinguished commodore.’

  He sighed, fiddling with a pencil. ‘We’re beset with worriments, gentlemen, but we will prevail. The Dutch made this a green and pleasant land and I won’t see it decline. The problem I would most ask you to reflect upon therefore is that of how best we are to reconcile its inhabitants to our rule. A sullen and rebellious population, ready to rise at little provocation, will be a sore trial.’

  ‘Um, er . . .’

  ‘Yes, Colonel Tupley?’

  The quartermaster general, a precise individual, whose intensity of gaze was disconcerting, came back, ‘I’ve not heard anything yet, sir, about what shall be done concerning our trading position.’

  ‘Trading position?’ said Baird, blankly.

  ‘Indeed. We lost two-thirds of our specie when Britannia went down in the Brazils. I’m expected to pay the troops with just what cast of exchange? Implicit is that we must satisfy them and local suppliers by note of hand on the British Treasury, which in course will be discounted on the local market. And for which form of return? Goods in kind? Some barbarous foreign coin?’

  ‘An early decision will be made, Colonel.’ Before Tupley could reply, he announced briskly, ‘The meeting reconvenes tomorrow at nine sharp. Thank you for your attendance and please do give our problems your deepest thought – I need your ideas. Good day to you all.’

  Renzi remained, and when the others had left, Baird slumped in his chair. ‘By heavens, just talking about what faces us brings on the blue devils,’ he said moodily.

  ‘I can’t help but observe that if the people wished to rise against us, I believe they would have done so by now,’ Renzi said. ‘I’m supposing the nature of this entire settlement is as a Dutch merchant-ship victualling stop and, in a small way, a trading port. If this can be restored, then it would go well with the merchantry.’

  ‘Umm. Now that’s something that I can do.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Make it a free port! Open to all nations – that’ll please ’em. Where before they’d only what was left of the Batavian and French trade calling here, now they’ve all of the British Empire to welcome! I’ll make a proclamation to that effect immediately.’

  ‘It’ll be many months before it takes effect, the word needing so long to get out.’

  Baird beamed. ‘Yes, but it’s the effect on the merchants I have an eye to. Gives ’em something to thank us for.’

  Renzi thought for a moment, then added, ‘But then I observe there is a further course – one that links their self-interest with our desire to govern wisely.’

  ‘Oh? Do go on, Renzi. I’ve a fancy this will be worth hearing.’

  ‘It does cross my mind that the chief objective of our being here is to deny the French the strategic advantage of holding the Cape. That being so, we have no interest in its exploitation – the planting of colonies, the establishment of manufactories and the like. In fine, we have no real wish to disturb the present order.

  ‘However, conceive of the consternation, the dismay, at recent events in the hearts of these folk. The merchant and honest citizens will long have accommodated to the subtleties of opportunity and advancement in society afforded by their traditional and familiar system of law and culture. Now this is taken away and they’re confronted by a situation not of their choosing or control.

  ‘Are the English to be a brutal conqueror, exacting tribute, imposing our language, alien forms of law, taxation? Are they to be dispossessed by arbitrary laws of their ancient lands, losing their ancestral homes, their investments against old age?

  ‘Everything is set on its head and they will listen to any who promises to restore the old ways. Sir – I have a proposition. Should we do as the Romans did, then we will be at considerable advantage.’

  ‘Pray continue . . . Mr Secretary.’

  ‘We keep the structure of native rule in place, complete with laws and customs, without interference, merely ensuring the ruler is complaisant. Do you declare by proclamation that this be so, that none may fear loss or seizure, that we English do hold ourselves under the same laws and that—’

  ‘A radical conceit, sir!’

  ‘– providing always that such is not in conflict with any English common law. Sir, the Dutch system is derived from the Roman tradition, as ours is. I’ll wager there are paltry differences only, and the customs are harmless. For a little given, much is gained.’

  ‘I’ll reserve opinion on the Romans as an exemplar, but your proposition
is interesting. Damn, it, very interesting . . . It means they’ll have little to complain of, they ruling themselves, and if they wax fat on the trade we put their way, most will frown on any who seek to trouble it.’

  Renzi said nothing, giving space for Baird to explore the thought.

  ‘Hmm. Laws ’n’ customs – I suppose this includes their currency? Then here we have a solution to our lack of specie. Let ’em keep using their old money, whatever that is. Pay our soldiers in suchlike, and the market can’t refuse our coin, it being theirs . . . Yes, it’ll raise eyebrows among my colonels but we have possibilities.’

  His forehead creased in concentration. ‘Ha! Another fine thought – we treat with their old town council or whatever with a view to adopting it in its glorious entirety, lord mayor and all! This way we’ll have no need to face the tedium of forming our own with all its devising of pettifogging ordinances and drain to the Treasury. Yes, by Jove!’

  He reflected for a moment, then slapped his hand down. ‘We’ll do it! Nothing to say I, as governor, can’t make it so! Um, first thing is to get it down in a form o’ words. Then we trot it by the former Dutch nabob in charge, who’ll see it in his interest to be restored to power, and we’ll then get it cast into the local lingo.’

  ‘Do we have any familiar with the law, sir?’

  ‘Umm – no. And it has to be safely in the legal cant.’ Baird was downcast for only a moment, then brightened. ‘No – but the Dutch have. This nabob making common cause with us you can be certain will leave nothing to chance in this way. Splendid! I’ll trouble you to draw up our draft form o’ words while I send out for the chap and we’ll have something to show for a good afternoon’s work.’

  Kydd was only too aware that for sailors a death at sea, when not in the presence of the enemy, must always be attended with the proper forms of respect – a muster at the ship’s side, prayers and then a flag-draped body consigned to the deep.

  For the three who did not return there could not be all of this. But regular service at sea saw many a fall from the yard at night, a rogue sea sweeping the fore-deck and other hazards taking life and leaving nothing, and there were long-hallowed traditions of the captain gathering the men, ensuring the right words were said. As was the way of the Service, L’Aurore put to sea immediately afterwards, duty bound.

  They sailed away from the sunset, the seamen at their mess-decks muted over their evening grog. Later there would be the traditional ceremony about the foremast as the dead sailors’ kit and treasured possessions were auctioned to their messmates, the proceeds always many times the actual value of the items, to go eventually to their loved ones – but it would be many months or even years before they would hear of their loss.

  Kydd missed Renzi. Through the years they had contrived to stay together and now he was no longer there, so Kydd would dine alone. Most captains did, of course, unless invited by the gunroom, or at breakfast with the offgoing officer-of-the-watch and a brace of tongue-tied midshipmen, but Kydd had grown used to Renzi’s company.

  Would Renzi soon tire of acting the scribe for a precarious land-bound bureaucracy? Like himself, Kydd knew his friend relished the broad horizons and freedoms of the sea, and perhaps the fetters of unchanging routine would become irksome.

  The long but slight southerly swell gave a pleasing rhythm to L’Aurore’s easy leg seaward; in the morning she would close with the land to resume her easterly course, the next fortress marked as Onrusberge. And in the meantime he would try to let sleep soften the images of the day.

  A rose-tinted dawn saw the frigate raise the long rocky spit at Hangklip; their position secure, a couple of tacks into the south-south-easterly, and they were approaching an immense stretch of bright sand-hills as far as the eye could see, at its northern end a small settlement below rumpled umber heights that stretched away inland.

  ‘To quarters, if you please,’ Kydd ordered. Their chart was a dozen years old, and the modest battery on the hill above might well have been strengthened since then to give them an unpleasant surprise.

  Located well into the hook at the end of the bay, Onrusberge was on a dead lee shore and L’Aurore prudently came to well clear, conveniently out of range of any guns. Taking the officer-of-the-watch’s telescope while his barge was being prepared, Kydd carefully inspected the land. Set many miles to the south-east and separated by formidable country, there was the prospect that the news of Cape Town’s surrender had not reached it, if the terse notations on the chart were to be believed.

  Their appearance had created something of a stir, for there was noticeable activity ashore. He swept the heights, searching for the fort. There was none evident, only a low jumble of square grey structures. Could this mean that it was in some way concealed?

  Under sail, his barge made for the distant cluster of houses, surfing before the swell with bellying sails, a large white flag high and prominent. He had a minimal boat’s crew and was unarmed, and noted warily a gathering of figures along the shore.

  Kydd directed the boat towards its centre. A small file of soldiers appeared and began to form up. When they were closer, he could see that they were at the head of a projecting flat tongue of rock, which had a rickety jetty perched along it.

  The swell urged them inshore with dismaying rapidity. Kydd glanced at Poulden at the tiller; unusually, his calm features were set in a frown. It was a delicate judgement in seamanship: wind abaft, the swell translating to white-capped seas driven ever higher as they surged in, and the small jetty with barely a boat’s length to come up to. In this craft it would be lunacy to make a direct approach, the seas only too ready to smash against its pretty but squared-off transom before Kydd could make it to dry land.

  He said nothing, letting Poulden make his decision. A hundred yards off, both sails came down at the run and oars thumped into their thole pins. For a moment there was an awkward slewing as the boat lost way before they could find their rhythm, but then Poulden saw his chance and brought the boat round, head to seas.

  It was masterly: now the barge was keeping position against the onrushing combers, edging across until it was within oar’s length of the jetty.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Poulden said, trying to work out what was happening ashore.

  Any but a lubberly crew would see the need for a rope thrown to bring them in the last few yards but the reception party just stood like statues. ‘I’ll go for’ard,’ Kydd said, finding his way down to the bows, and when Poulden brought them in at an angle, he would be ready for that split-second moment when bow touched jetty.

  He saw his chance: he would seize one of the vertical top timbers of the jetty and pull himself over. The bow approached, touched, and he sprang for the upright, heaving up with all his strength. The barge fell away immediately – but suddenly there was a rending crack of old timber and he dropped to his waist in the swash of the next wave.

  Energised by anger, he performed a topman’s trick, rotating to let his feet walk up as he hauled in on the sagging timber until he could twist up and on to the ramshackle decking, in the process losing his gold-laced cocked hat to the waves.

  He straightened, trying to fix a smile as he faced the five rather quaint-looking soldiers and their elderly officer, who had wisely not ventured out on the old jetty. A moment of mutual incomprehension passed, and then a quavering but jaunty air arose from the fife-player.

  Sloshing forward, Kydd approached the little group, the smile still fixed. The officer drew his sword and energetically saluted him, his gaze carefully averted. Without a hat to raise and feeling more than a little mutinous, Kydd bowed shortly.

  Knowing that the Batavians and French were allies he declared importantly, ‘Je transmets les salutations de sa majesté le roi George, et les frères néerlandais, félicitations—’

  ‘Do you come from the Grand Admiraal Nelson, sir?’ the officer asked abruptly, in English.

  Nettled, Kydd ignored the question. ‘I am here to treat with your fort commandant on an important
matter. Be so good as to take me to him.’ His wet clothes clung annoyingly.

  ‘I am he,’ the officer admitted, the sword-point drooping a little. ‘Ritmeester Francken. And these are my men.’

  ‘Ah. Captain Thomas Kydd, my ship L’Aurore of thirty-two guns,’ he said, indicating the frigate nobly at anchor out in the bay. ‘May we go to your fort to discuss a delicate matter, sir?’

  ‘We must surrender to you, hein?’ Francken asked politely.

  Kydd blinked, then collected himself. ‘Er, shall we go to the fort?’

  ‘Het spijt – and it’s not fit for such as you, sir,’ Francken said admiringly.

  Kydd took his arm and propelled him away from the gaping onlookers. ‘You’ve heard of Blaauwberg?’

  ‘Sadly, yes. The fishermen. Sir, are you sure you’re not sent by Admiraal Nelson at all?’

  It was becoming clear. ‘He has other business and asks me to treat with the gallant defenders directly. Sir, do you—’

  ‘Certainly. But with the conditions.’

  ‘Sir, you lie helpless under our guns! And you talk of conditions?’

  Francken drew himself up. ‘I must insist,’ he said stiffly. ‘Sir – we are a nation of honour! I cannot allow—’

  ‘Very well. What are these conditions? Be aware that I cannot speak for my commander-in-chief should these terms be adverse to His Majesty’s arms.’

  Stubbornly, the officer tried to explain. Eventually Kydd understood. He excused himself and went once more to the jetty. ‘One boatkeeper,’ he bellowed to his barge laying off. ‘The rest to step ashore.’ A shame-faced urchin came up with his sodden hat, retrieved from the breakers, which he shook and clapped on, glowering.

  The boat’s crew scrambled up and assembled behind Kydd. He bowed to the officer and turned to address his bewildered men. ‘Stand up straight, y’ scurvy villains!’ he growled. ‘We’re about to take a surrender from the Dutch but he’s insisting on a good show in front of the locals. We’ve no Jollies right now so you’ll have to do.’

  Stirk caught on quickest and wasted no time in hurrying out to take charge as ‘sergeant’.