At the individual level, each ship’s company’s Royal Marines and seamen would be divided between ‘boarders’ and ‘stormers’ and a skeleton working crew, enabling snap decisions to be made on the spot for their deployment depending on progress.
‘And when the forts wake up?’ Lydiard said, with a half-smile. ‘When we’re at anchor at point-blank range? This is a target even a militiaman may not miss.’
‘An observation well made,’ Brisbane said smoothly. ‘This is why each ship will contribute to a party armed with crowbars and axes who will force entrance into the sea-gate of Fort Amsterdam through the portcullis while the Fisgards storm the rear of the fortress with ladder and grapnel.’
There were gasps but whether in shock or admiration it was difficult to tell.
‘Recollecting that this fort is intended to defend to seaward – we shall be assaulting from landward.’
‘And the other?’ persisted Lydiard.
‘Fort Republiek will be helpless, as being unable to fire on account of ourselves being within the town limits.’
In the cool of the night, there was a gentle, lulling heave to the sea and it seemed preposterous to believe that they had any kind of a chance – Kydd’s experience at the assault and conquest of another Dutch outpost of empire, Cape Town, had shown him how only the professional military had what it took to conduct an advance on the enemy in their own territory. By comparison they were amateurs – courageous, spirited and intelligent, but amateurs for all that.
‘Everything depends on our forcing entry past the fort,’ Bolton said slowly. ‘If we knew that was assured …’
‘It’ll be assured if we do it,’ Kydd snapped. ‘Clap on all sail and press on and we can’t fail.’
Unsaid was what would happen if they penetrated into the desperately restricted waters inside but then found it untenable to remain. To turn completely about by some means and effect a retreat under overwhelming fire …
As morning imperceptibly lightened the tropical seascape in a soft violet, the four frigates hove to ten miles off Curacao, south of Willemstad and the channel, and safely out of sight.
There was that preternatural heightening of the senses as always felt before an action, but Kydd had much to occupy his mind.
Details: the division of seamen into boarders and stormers, the equipping of the boatswain’s party with the right gear, the clearing away of an anchor for rapid letting go and more – down to the colour of the field sign that each man would wear.
Last, every single boat the ship possessed was put into the water for towing.
They were ready.
Brisbane was not one for ceremony, and it was his single flag ‘preparative’ whipping down in Arethusa that set the little armada on its way.
By degrees the light strengthened, and when they made landfall, visibility in the mists of morning was enough. Formless as a dream, the rumpled coast gradually took on reality. The channel entrance was impossible to miss, the gentle fall each side in the even run of the shoreline unmistakable – as was the squat menace of Fort Amsterdam firming out of the haze.
They were committed.
Arethusa took the lead, L’Aurore fell in close astern and the others followed, arrowing on a line of bearing straight for the channel entrance. A quiet torpor seemed to lie on the day-fresh landscape – not a thing moved. They came closer; a Dutch flag drooped atop the fort. Arethusa and each ship following had battle-ensigns a-fly but hoisted at the main-mast head of each was a large white flag of truce, a legitimate move that Brisbane hoped would confuse and delay any response. But it was at the cost of preventing any British ship opening fire while such a flag flew.
Nearer still, and not a gun had fired. Ahead, however, by the seaward entrance, just as Brisbane had foreseen, the thirty-six was moored athwart, its broadside squarely across their track. Beyond, the spars of the corvette were in a similar position, and both had left a space clear for ships to pass.
It was astounding: arrow-straight for the enemy’s vitals and still no gunfire, only the gentle whisper of wind in the sails, the familiar creaking and slatting to be heard in any ship under sail, and ahead the entrance broadening.
A sudden thud – the white of a discharge from the fort rose and swelled in the light airs. The ships stood on. Two more from the casemates. Did they not see the flags of truce? If so, they were ignoring them. Then an uneven firing came on, which hid the fort in roiling gunsmoke.
They had engaged too soon! In the time of reloading the four ships were up with the entrance and then inside, insanely close to the fort, with the town slipping by closer than Portsmouth Point.
Then the light morning breeze hesitated – and backed into the north. Instantly the moment became fraught with peril. Headed by a foul wind, the ships slowed and began to yaw. It was the worst of luck, and Kydd’s mind raced as he tried to think how Brisbane could retrieve their predicament. No complex signals were possible in the rapidly changing circumstances and it was inconceivable that four ships in the tight space could back away now.
Then, as if relenting, the winds veered back to the east and they took up again on their perilous course.
There was a burst of musket fire from the left side as soldiers ran up, and then they were past, heading for the anchored thirty-six. Aboard there was frantic activity on her deck. Men boiled up from below but stopped, paralysed with fear at the sight of the heavy frigate about to pass by her stern to smash in a pulverising broadside. But she did not, for the flag of truce was still flying and not a single shot had been fired from any British ship.
Arethusa’s helm went over and in the same instant her anchor plunged down and she slewed about, her bowsprit crazily jutting over the little seawall and path, pointing directly into the town. By now gunfire had broken out generally in a bewildering chaos of noise and powder-smoke.
L’Aurore followed and, passing Arethusa, did the same, clearing the way for Anson to take position mid-channel. Peering back through the rolling smoke it looked as if Fisgard had taken the ground with the foul wind and was swinging across the water but then she broke free and, as planned, heaved to ready.
Kydd saw that something was going on in Arethusa. A group of officers were clustered around the capstan as Brisbane conspicuously bent to a task: the air was filling with the whip and slam of shot, but he was writing. He finished, folded a note and handed it to a midshipman with a strip of white cloth pinned around his hat.
The brave lad tumbled into the gig and under a large white flag was pulled frantically to a landing place at the Waaigat, a side-water for small craft. Kydd gave a grim smile: Brisbane was giving them chance of surrender before broadsides at point-blank range devastated the town. It was a terrible risk, though, for at any time the Dutch artillery could arrive to smash the ships to ruin.
There was no slackening in the gunfire from the shore and first one then another man fell in Arethusa, and L’Aurore took her first casualty, a fo’c’sle hand, Timmins, who dropped into a motionless huddle.
Kydd felt anger rise. Then the midshipman came into view and scrambled up the side to report to Brisbane.
The white flag at the masthead soon whipped down and Arethusa’s boats were in the water, striking towards the stunned thirty-six, Brisbane waving his sword like a madman.