Conquest Read online

  Renzi knew he had to get through to the baron if he had any hope of getting out alive. But the man was a mystery – he was known to be a royalist, a refugee from the chaos of revolution, and here he was, patently of noble birth, with the delicacy of manners and graces of the ancien régime, in Africa fomenting a native rebellion.

  ‘Sir, it would gratify me much to understand how a gentleman of courtliness and discernment is to be found in such distant parts as this. Do you not pine after the salons and civilities of la belle France? The home of Voltaire and Montesquieu both – the mists on the Seine from the Pont Marie, the bookshops on the rue St Honoré even?’

  ‘Why, I do believe you are acquainted with Paris, sir!’

  ‘Not so long since I had the felicity of attending the Institut as guest of M’sieur La Place.’

  ‘Then you are a scholar indeed!’ the baron exclaimed, in wonderment.

  ‘In the meanest way, sir. I have pretensions at a theory of the human condition that require extensive travel of which—’

  ‘He lies!’ Thérèse spat. ‘I know him for a certainty as a humble clerk of sorts from off one of the navy boats. He must have bribed his way to the attention of their ruling general to get his grand post.’

  ‘Possibly. A gentleman of learning certainly,’ the baron mused, stroking his chin.

  ‘And one who is in some mystification as to the meaning of your present actions, sir,’ Renzi said civilly.

  ‘I believe, Mr Secretary, you are referring to this current enterprise. There is no mystery, sir. I’m engaged in the raising of the Xhosa tribe to fall upon the eastern frontier, thereby attracting the military forces of the English occupier while Cape Town is retaken. As you may imagine, I have some considerable interest in what you have to say concerning why it must fail.’

  Renzi swallowed. ‘None the less it exercises me considerably why a distinguished member of the noblesse does so support the Emperor Bonaparte in such a forward manner.’

  The baron winced. ‘I abhor the upstart Corsican. Probably more than you do! He has the manners of the banditti and the instincts of a wolf and while he tears down the old order he replaces it with his own aristocracy. A vainglorious and contemptible creature.’

  ‘Then why—’

  ‘There are principles of honour and destiny that must rise above all else. At the present time the country is ruled by that scoundrel but will not be always. There will come a time when we emerge from this state of eternal war into a bounteous peace. Then, sir, the age of empires will begin and undoubtedly whosoever has possession of the fulcrums of trade will inevitably accrue the most glorious and enduring dominion.

  ‘France shall no longer be denied her place as queen of nations, her right by virtue of culture and civilisation! No more in the shadow of other more thrusting realms, she shall step forward to take her role as leader and exemplar, ruling over the greatest empire the world has yet seen.’

  ‘And for this you—’

  ‘For this I abjure my title and honours, for what are they compared to the glory of one’s country? For this, too, I have invested my entire fortune in the equipping of the expedition, for nothing but celerity and swiftness of purpose will secure the prize.’

  ‘I honour you for it, sir,’ Renzi said sincerely. The baron was a patriot of the highest order and had dedicated himself and his wealth to the service of his motherland. And he was impeccably correct in his logic: whoever ended the war with the most possessions would dominate trade and world empires – and he must be aware that the British were at that moment, thanks to their navy, beginning to detach French possessions and adding more of their own. A strike back now, before military reinforcements and the apparatus of permanent rule could arrive from England, was their only chance. He was privately funding the uprising to overcome delay and bureaucracy, yet had been able to arrange in time the necessary deadly counter-stroke – a direct assault by some powerful squadron already at sea.

  The baron gave Renzi a curious look. ‘And now you will infinitely oblige me with your views on why we must inevitably fail.’

  ‘I vow I shall tell you everything I know, but find it necessary to learn further of your preparations, sir, it bearing so on the elements of success.’ What was he reading of the man? The stakes were higher now by far than his personal survival.

  The baron beckoned graciously. ‘Then I shall be your guide and show you our little enterprise.’

  Walking side by side they began their tour within the kraal. ‘A contemptible little fortification, you’ll agree, but then it’s for a temporary purpose and, besides, what have we to fear, no one knowing of our existence?’

  It enclosed a wide area: to one side were numerous thatched huts in the native style and, set apart, others with a small stoep that resembled a Dutch country dwelling. ‘Our living quarters. And over there those of our closest warriors.’ There were many such men nearby, some standing on one leg with the other crooked against the knee while balancing with the assegai. ‘The main band numbers some ten thousand, four paramount chiefs and their Nguni followers. A formidable force to unleash, I’m persuaded.’

  ‘And there?’ Renzi indicated directly across to the other side. It was a long, low thatched structure away from other huts covered by canvas and well guarded.

  ‘Ah. That is where our muskets and powder are stored. Dear me, you have no conception of the pother and vexation it has been to mount this uprising. The Xhosa are not to be trusted in the article of muskets – if they got hold of them before time they’d turn them on their brothers to seek some petty vengeance or other. No, the only way for me has been to send first for the weapons, useless, of course, without powder. This was to attract the avaricious attention of the warriors to flock to me and, as you can see, has succeeded handsomely.

  ‘Then the recent shipment of powder. To prevent its looting and ransacking, I have made my selection of those who will bear my arms and they have every interest in guarding the store. Tomorrow is the final move, which will set match to fuse.’

  ‘What is that, pray?’

  ‘I had hoped to have the services of fifty soldiers of France to aid us but their vessel seems to have been delayed. I can wait no longer – the warriors are hot with blood-lust to begin and I risk my standing with them should I attempt to hold them back. Therefore I’ve given orders that the arms will be issued. Tomorrow.’

  Renzi felt numb at the sheer impossibility of stopping the tidal wave of savagery about to engulf the frontier. And shortly he would be asked to reveal the fatal flaw.

  ‘Out of the gates here, we have but a short walk to the landing jetty.’

  A rickety but strong pier jutted out from the riverbank. Two cargo-loading boats lay alongside and Renzi estimated that there was at least four feet of water available. Was the river tidal, he wondered.

  ‘It is made from what the local people so quaintly term stinkwood. Now, is there anything else you wish to assess before you share with me your objections?’

  Renzi looked about him. There were above a hundred warriors in sight and Thérèse and her men were paces away: he would be chopped down before he had gone yards if he tried to run.

  He drew himself up and said quietly, ‘Sir, I promised to tell you everything I know. And I have to say to you now, that I know . . . nothing. Nothing at all. There is no reason I can think of that might halt your scheme.’

  ‘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.

  ‘Now, Buttons, do you go over the headland towards the river as carefully as you may, and see if you can sight a sentry. Off you go, lad!’ He needed no urging, disappearing expertly into the low scrub.

  It was some time before he returned but Kydd had anticipated this. A poacher would be concerned to ensure that no gamekeeper was in front of him and equally that none was out to the side who could cut off his retreat. ‘A lookout, sir. Sittin’ on the beach by the river,’ the boy panted. ‘None else as I could see.’

  ‘We’ll get closer.’

  Kydd and Dodd bent down and moved on through the scrub behind Buttons until the young lad held up his hand, signalling they were near. He crouched and beckoned them on, bellying forward until they topped the sand-hill and looked down into the river.

  The rise of ground was too slight to see much beyond a glitter of darker water i
nside the paleness of the sand-bar – but there was the lookout, not a hundred yards away, sitting by the twist in the river mouth that hid the interior so well and staring out to sea, his figure stark against the near-white sand.

  Kydd cursed silently. It was critical to the operation to get depth of water over the bar but that was in full view of the lookout. ‘I have to get to the sand-bar,’ he whispered.

  ‘Shall I take ’im, sir?’ Dodd asked.

  ‘No, he’ll be missed and they’ll be warned something’s afoot.’

  ‘Don’t fret, sir, I know how,’ hissed Buttons, mischievously, and faded into the undergrowth.

  Minutes later, for the first time in Africa’s long history, the distinctive harsh call of a mating wood grouse was heard, rising from a regular chuck-chuck to its irresistible strident climax.

  The lookout’s head jerked up and he looked around in astonishment. Kydd took up the cue and began circling to the edge of the river behind the man. The bird’s call stopped, the lookout stood up and gazed about. Then it started again, further away, alluring. With a quick glance out to sea the man padded inquisitively into the scrub.

  Kydd had his chance: he stepped into the river and waded out, not daring to look behind, heading for the centre of the sand-bar. The white sand was firm, the river placidly sliding over it to meet the sea, but to his dismay he saw that in places it was barely inches deep. A sinuous deeper channel of sorts was at the far side, but with a foot or so of water there was going to be no rousing swift assault by boats.

  He returned to the bank quickly, glancing upstream to note the river disappearing into a sharp bend. That produced one more complication: to get a sight of the base itself there was no alternative but to follow the riverbank up.

  He waited until he was joined by the other two. The base would be guarded, of that there was no question. But would there be outlying pickets or sentries? The probability was that the French were feeling secure in their hidden outpost with such a huge army in the offing – but all it needed was for one only to spot them . . .