Conquest Page 29

  ‘Go ahead, lad – if you see anyone, play the bird.’

  With evening drawing in, after nearly a mile of nerve-racking progress they turned a bend and saw the base, palisaded and of a considerable size with distant figures entering and leaving by a gateway leading to a jetty. Faintly on the air came the sound of drums and massed chanting from a vast throng.

  Kydd took out his pocket telescope. Close up, the scene was even more intimidating. The base looked impregnable, the palisaded fort, or whatever it was, large and sprawling with countless warriors passing to and fro. The only thing in their favour was that Kydd could see no embrasures for cannon.

  ‘What do you think, Sar’nt?’ Kydd said, in a low voice, passing across the telescope and trying not to let his worry show. He had deliberately selected the experienced NCO to assess their chances rather than the young lieutenant of marines.

  Dodd took his time, studying terrain and cover, fields of fire, exposure. When he lowered the glass his face was grave. ‘Not good, sir.’

  With night coming on, there was nothing to be gained by further reconnaissance and it was time to leave. Kydd took one last look before moving away.

  ‘Sounds like they’s workin’ up to a right gleesome night!’ Buttons whispered to Dodd, as they followed.

  ‘We must give ’em best, is my thinking, sail back with our prize – it’s no shame to recognise when the odds are overbearing,’ Curzon said sorrowfully. Next to him Gilbey pursed his lips but did not contradict him.

  Kydd turned to look at Bowden, who started at being consulted and could only mumble something about the difficulties they faced.

  Kydd’s gaze moved to Clinton. ‘What do the Jollies think?’

  The lieutenant turned pink and stammered, ‘From what Sar’nt Dodd informs me, I – I’m inclined to agree. Without field artillery and cavalry, we stand no chance against such numbers. A frontal assault on a fortified position . . . er, well, I can’t see—’

  ‘Then we have to think again,’ Kydd said heavily. ‘If this base is not destroyed before it sets off the rising, we fail in our duty. Time is not on our side and any and every plan must be considered. Gentlemen . . . ?’

  The discussion grew animated, but when there were no fresh ideas forthcoming, Kydd said, ‘Let me rehearse the situation. An attack of the usual sort will, of course, fail against such numbers. A surprise landing will not fare much better, for native warriors need only snatch up a spear and they’re immediately effective.

  ‘Very well. I feel Mr Gilbey’s suggestion of arming every boat with carronades and bombarding the fortification before a party of marines lands to set fire to the palisades is not practicable. I can tell you, armed boats cannot get over the sand-bar and, besides, if the material of the defences is wet by rain there can be no fire.

  ‘I like Mr Curzon’s proposal – that we blow up their powder store, thereby destroying the muskets stored with them as well. This will stop the rising directly. But I need hardly point out the gravest obstacle of all: how to approach without being overwhelmed.’

  Bowden brightened. ‘Sir, as to that, my uncle served in the American wars and tells that the Indian savages never venture to fight at night for fear of the spirits that are abroad. Might we think these are no different? This would allow us to get close enough to lay a charge without being challenged.’

  Kydd shook his head. ‘A good notion, Mr Bowden, but I can’t allow it.’

  ‘Why not, sir? There’s every—’

  ‘Because, Mr Fire-eater, we’d lose the whole party when the powder-store blows and ten thousand angry savages swarm about looking for whoever destroyed their new weapons.’

  ‘We could take ’em off by boats. That’d thwart the . . .’ Remembering too late, he tailed off shamefacedly.

  Their plans all fell down at the same hurdle. No boats. Kydd had gone to the tide tables to see if they could wring just a little more depth of water over the bar but even at the highest state of tide they would still ground on the hard sand by a considerable margin. With enough men – say, a hundred or more – they could manhandle the boats over the bar, but bringing them ashore would leave L’Aurore helpless if Africaine showed up.

  No, they had to give up. It was not humanly possible to—

  Or was it? The Naval Chronicle of a year or two ago, in an article on Venice – that was it – had related how even ships-of-the-line could be built at the famous Arsenal, which was set in the midst of a shallow lagoon. On each side of the vessel was lashed a series of half-sunken lighters. These were pumped out and rose in the water, lifting the ship, which was floated out of the lagoon.

  There was some peculiar name for them – yes, camels. They’d devise their own camels and float the boats over the bar.

  Kydd took in the uncomfortable expressions around the table and couldn’t resist a delighted smile. ‘So this is what I’ve decided. We do both – lay the charges and send in carronade-armed boats, which’ll serve to take off the party too.’

  ‘Sir – boats?’ Gilbey stuttered.

  ‘Why, yes. With camels!’

  It was the breakthrough, and after Kydd had explained the operation, the plan quickly came alive.

  A sapper party would approach overland unseen while the launch and pinnace were brought over the bar. When these appeared off the base they would open fire, drawing the attention of the defenders, while the charge was laid. In the confusion after the explosion, the sappers would race down to the jetty to be taken off and all would retire.

  It was a neat solution. The number needed for the operation was minimal, the sapper party could be retrieved and, above all, in one stroke it would stop the rising before it began, giving Baird enough time to find a more permanent answer.

  There was just one problem: at night it would be impossible to reload. While cannon fire would cause an adequate diversion, the guns would then be useless if called upon to deter swarms of warriors turning on the fleeing sappers. Some other distraction would be needed.

  ‘Who will lead the boats, sir?’ Gilbey wanted to know.

  ‘I will,’ Kydd said firmly.

  ‘Sir! I must protest. Surely the honour is mine as first lieutenant.’

  ‘No, sir. Did you ever see Lord Nelson hold back when hot work’s to be done? That wasn’t his style and neither is it mine.’ He softened at Gilbey’s expression. ‘There’ll be many more such in this commission, I’m in no doubt. If a plan is your conceiving then most certainly you will lead. And in this action, why, you’ll in course be to the fore – in command of the other boat.’

  Then to the other details. The camels: casks lashed upright together in a row with lines connecting them under the boat, fashioned so the cradle could be floated under and then the casks emptied to raise the boat bodily. The charge: this would be two powder barrels brought together and a length of quickmatch leading into one. The timing: this very night, in the darkness before dawn when the tide was at its highest. And finally the volunteers: Gunner’s Mate Stirk would think it an insult to his profession and honour if he were not asked to lead the sappers, and Kydd would allow him to decide his own party.

  They set to. The boatswain laid out the lines to form the cradle, the cooper and his mate trundling the barrels into place where they were seized together in a string. It needed some thought to arrive at a means, when the time came, of emptying them quickly, but one was eventually found.

  In the magazine the gunner and his mate prepared the quickmatch fuse. This was in the form of three cotton strands, much like candle wicks tightly twisted around each other, which had been steeped with spirits of wine in a mixture of saltpetre and mealed powder. Forty-foot lengths of the deadly cord were connected together and threaded into a linen powder-hose, then coiled into a cartridge box for safety.

  From their stowage below were swayed up the eighteen-pounder carronades. These were fitted to slide beds in the bows of the two boats, complete with gun-locks and lanyards, Kydd finally settling on one round shot and two caniste
r each. Although it was not feasible to consider reloading at night this was a precaution in case of delay until after daybreak.

  Even the cook was roped in, for the galley funnel needed to be tapped to provide soot to conceal the faces of the sapper party. Stirk knew who he wanted – he and the strongman Wong would lay the charge while Doud and his tie-mate Pinto would see to the diversion. It was a good team, and when the time came to board the boats there were high spirits and confidence.

  Once on their way it was another matter. Barely visible out in the blackness, the pinnace was a slight dark shape on their beam with the occasional white swash of wake. Kydd felt it a monstrous tempting of Fate to challenge such odds with just a pair of boats against an army of ten thousand. So much could go wrong – an alarm given as they were halfway across the sand-bar, an overlooked strongpoint – but these were the familiar anxieties of any clandestine operation and he crushed the thoughts.

  Their timing was good: they arrived at the ghostly silence of the river mouth some hours before daybreak. There was no lookout posted, but all whispered as they worked.

  Kydd’s launch nosed in first, the men leaping out and steadying it as the clumsy cradle was passed under the boat, the big casks, heavy with seawater, thumping shins and balking every inch of the way. Sweating and cursing silently, they succeeded – and then a most remarkable sight followed. Two dozen brawny sailors, each armed with a galley pot, began furiously bailing out the casks.

  Even before they had finished it was clear the boat was going to make it over the bar so Kydd ordered it forward, men guiding it around the twisting channel to the deeper water beyond. The other was brought through but it was taking longer than planned – time was ticking by and to be caught in daylight would be utterly disastrous.

  Stirk retrieved his gear: gunner’s pouch, a cartridge box with the precious quickmatch sealed inside and a satchel of ‘come-in-handies’ that no self-respecting gunner’s mate would be without. Wong and Pinto were each burdened with a barrel of powder sewn in canvas and strapped to their backs, while Doud carried a carpenter’s bag with a mysterious glint of brass inside.

  The two boats were manned again and Kydd looked across at the four burdened figures standing in the shallows. So much depended on their courage and cool-headed devotion to duty. He tried to think of something encouraging to say but words failed him at the enormity of what he was asking them to do and he could only fall back on a hissed ‘Good luck!’ as they hastened away.

  From the first, Stirk took the lead. The directions given were easy enough, and the almost luminous white of the sand beneath his feet made choosing a path easy. ‘Shift y’r arse, Pinto!’ he growled, as the Iberian fell back with the weight of his barrel. Concerned, Doud closed with him and, after a while, insisted on changing burdens. Pinto gasped his thanks and the party pressed on.

  It was only a matter of twenty minutes or so before they came to the last bend and made out the secret base and the stark height of its palisades, with here and there the red glow of dying fires. Now oriented, Stirk took the little band in a wide circle to where they must lie-up. He dropped his gear and, on hands and knees, went silently forward. Almost immediately he saw the black shape of a warrior with a spear against the sky. Another was standing idly by.

  He froze, fixing the position in his mind. Part of him rebelled in horror – he remembered the cannibalism he’d witnessed on a Pacific island – but this was no time to take fright. He backed away slowly to rejoin his friends. ‘There’s African bastards all about, mates. Doud – go out ’n’ give it y’r best, cuffin.’

  Hefting his carpenter’s bag, Doud grunted, ‘Let’s go, y’ Portugee shicer.’

  Leaning across, Wong whispered hoarsely to them, ‘Baak nin ho hop, pang yau!’

  ‘Thanks, shipmate,’ Doud threw back, with a grin, and they disappeared into the night.

  There was one thing that was sure. Either their diversion worked or the entire expedition would fail – and their death would be certain.

  It was the end for Renzi and it were better he accepted it. Prisoner and executioner followed the path as it wound around the bend and emerged facing the dark expanse of the wide lower reaches of the river, the starlight laying a pearly opacity on the still waters, so beautiful and infinitely poignant.

  As graciously as at a garden party, the baron indicated a thicket of greenery at the water’s edge.

  Renzi took position there, then turned to face the river, remembering to stand still so as not to upset the aim. It was odd but in his last moments he had no particular thought, no last-minute hot rush of memories – simply a wistful regret that for him there was to be no more future, in fact . . . nothing.

  Behind him he heard the box open, the steely click of preparation and he waited for the extinction of life. Taking his last look at the innocent sky, he emptied his mind of thoughts. Behind him the pistol was cocked with a lethal finality, and then—

  A deep, ghastly moan swelled away in the bush to the right, rising to a tortured howl that overwhelmed the senses with a primitive horror, baying at the night before finishing in a groan of despair.

  In the split-second that the torch was dropped by a man paralysed with fright, Renzi ducked and the pistol fired blindly above. He swung round savagely and cannoned into the baron who was knocked sprawling. The sputtering light of the dropped torch revealed an assegai thrown away by the panicking men as they fled. He snatched it up with a snarl and held it to the baron’s throat.

  ‘Get up, sir! We have company!’ Nothing else could explain the existence in the African bush of a standard stirrup North Atlantic fog-horn dutifully groaning its message into an unheeding world.

  As the cries of fleeing warriors faded, Stirk stood up. ‘Right, mate. We’ve work t’ do.’ He hefted his gear and made for the palisade. Wong joined him with the powder barrels.

  Up against the heights of the palisade, the dense interweaving of laths and vines over hardwood uprights looked impregnable. They had nothing with them that had a chance against it. It was too high to vault over and, anyway, the top was ridged with sharpened stakes. Distant rallying shouts sounded in the night – they had minutes only before the warriors returned.

  ‘Gau ch’oh!’ Wong growled in exasperation. He pushed Stirk aside, placing himself squarely against the palisade and reaching with his big hands up and out. Carefully adjusting and testing his grip, he paused for a heartbeat. Then, with a roar of grunting, he heaved back mightily. The fabric shivered and bowed. Wong held his grip and, leaning outward, climbed up and jolted backwards. Once – twice – and, with a thunderous crack, first one, then another of the uprights gave at the base.

  Cries of alarm and savage shouts from the darkness could only mean they had been discovered. Stirk fumbled under his shirt and yanked out a silver chain. Into the night, for those who could know, came the pealing stridency of a boatswain’s call piping, ‘Repeat the last order!’

  An instant later the terrifying howl was heard again – much closer, erupting in a hideous swell of agony that could only have come from the undead of the nether regions. The shouts turned to frantic wails and rapidly faded into the distance.

  ‘I’ll bear ye a fist, Wong,’ Stirk said, and added his weight, heaving down heartily as if at the jeer-tackle of the main-yard. There was another splintering crack and the whole section lurched and drooped. Stamping it clear, he looked into the compound. As described, there was a low structure nearby and he darted across to it. ‘Over here, mate,’ he called.

  To prepare took seconds only: a hasty slash at the canvas cover of the first barrel to expose a makeshift fuse from its interior. The end of the quickmatch was joined to it; he shoved the second barrel next to it and retreated, letting out the reel of quickmatch as he went. Through the palisades and out into the bush as far as the cord would go – there was no knowing just how much powder was in store.

  In a pierced tin box a length of slowmatch was alight, of the kind kept in a match-tub next to guns i
n case of misfires. He tenderly took it out, blew on it and was rewarded with a healthy glow. ‘It’ll do, me old cock. Ready?’ Quickmatch burned at nearly the same pace as an open powder-train – as fast as a man could run. When it started, they had seconds to flee for their lives.

  He jabbed the glowing stub at the quickmatch. It caught in a bright fizzle and disappeared as a red glow into the tube, racing unerringly towards its destiny. ‘Go!’ Stirk blurted, and careless of noise, they hurled themselves out into the bush.

  When it came the detonation was cataclysmic, the livid flash picking out every detail of the scene, the fiery column of destruction reaching high into the night sky before it was hidden in roiling smoke, the gigantic blast lifting both men off their feet and sending them sprawling. Then round and about there came the patter and thud of falling fragments.

  Disoriented by the numbing roar, Stirk staggered to his feet and, urgently gesturing to Wong, lumbered off towards the river and the vital jetty. Still half blinded, he nearly knocked over a silent figure, a white man, standing over another. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said automatically – then started, as though he’d seen a ghost. ‘Er, Mr Renzi? Ye’d better have it away on y’r toes wi’ us, sir. We’ve t’ be at the jetty before—’

  ‘Thank you, but first I’d be obliged if you’d relieve me of this gentleman and present him to Mr Kydd with my compliments. Tell him this is their ringleader. I’ve, er, other business to attend to – I’ll be at the jetty presently.’

  Gaping, they watched him hurry off.

  Kydd was warned by the fog-horn and, knowing attention was away from the river, positioned his boats in the outer darkness. The thunderous explosion shattered the stillness like the end of the world.

  ‘Give way, y’ swabs!’ he roared. The launch shot forward, towards the shore – and the general pandemonium. Warriors running aimlessly, shrieking their fear, small fires breaking out on all sides where burning fragments had landed. The jetty could just be made out but no anxious figures waiting.