‘Boarders, awaaaay!’ Kydd roared, and stood aside as men raced to take up their weapons and man the boats. Gilbey seemed to have been infected with the same frenzy and, with drawn blade, bellowed warlike curses at them while they stretched out to take the enemy from the other side. The gloves were off now.
In minutes it was all over in the thirty-six, and Brisbane himself hauled down its colours.
With rising feeling Kydd looked around. Anson had sent boats, which were now alongside the corvette, and fighting was taking place on its upper deck. There could be only one outcome there.
‘Stand to, the stormers!’ he called. It had to be soon or not at alclass="underline" the enemy could not be given time to bring up forces in mass.
Then he saw what he had been waiting for: Brisbane had taken boat and the men bent to their oars to head for the jetty followed by his other boats.
‘Flying column, away!’ he roared. ‘Mr Curzon, warp alongside the thirty-six and take possession. Stormers, away!’
Kydd took the tiller of his boat as it filled. This was the vital flying column that had to succeed. Beside him a set-faced Renzi sat. Kydd grinned at him and ordered the boat to bear away inshore, bellowing at them as he, too, was caught up in the excitement.
The zing and smack of musketry was all about them but Kydd, with a storm of emotion, had seen that every one of the frigate captains was now in a boat heading in. He waved his sword aloft in a crazy show and saw them all return the gesture.
The boat following each was packed with marines, and as the boats made to land at the jetty they stood off and kept up fire over the heads of those storming ashore. Quickly they assembled and trotted off to the south, in the direction of the ominous massive ramparts of Fort Amsterdam. Kydd motioned his stormers to join them.
The flying column was headed in another direction, to a little jetty on the opposite side of the Waaigat. ‘Go!’ The men needed no encouragement – they formed up quickly. Ten in alclass="underline" marines, seamen, Kydd and Renzi. Muskets and cutlasses. To take on an entire naval base.
As they made off, Kydd forced himself to an objective coolness. This was not to be a frontal assault on the base but, rather, a holding operation, keeping enemy heads down while a decision was made. Renzi’s information was enough to indicate that the base was only lightly defended, if at all, due to its clandestine nature. Possibly it could be carried by the men he had, that was his decision, but made only after a reconnaissance.
This side of the Waaigat there were few buildings and the road was deserted. Their rapid progress had wrong-footed the Dutch – a furiously rising swell of firing to the south was probably the storming of Fort Amsterdam and their attention was no doubt all there.
‘How far more, Nicholas?’ Kydd panted. Renzi was by his side – it had been given out that he was aware that this was to be a glorious occasion and wished to be present to record the action but in reality his presence was crucial in identifying the location.
‘Not far – under a mile in all. Round this hill and along the shoreline a space,’ he gasped. Sea life was not the best preparation for a fast march and Kydd noted Sergeant Dodd behind breathing deeply too.
The glittering expanse of the Schottegat came into view and with it their objective.
‘Fall back!’ Kydd ordered, bringing them all out of sight, remaining to peer past a thick bush.
‘The old building with the garden near overgrown,’ Renzi pointed out.
It was quiet – too quiet. But then again a wise French commander of a secret base would lie low and keep watch until the purpose and gravity of the British assault became known, then make his move. Any forces he might have would therefore be held within the building – and ready for them.
They didn’t have too much time, however, for at any moment the tide of war could turn against those storming the fort and a retreat would be forced on them. Kydd darted a glance around. ‘We’ve got an advantage. Sar’nt Dodd!’ He had spotted one thing in their favour but wanted confirmation.
‘Sah!’
‘Am I right? The building yonder is more or less on a point of land sticking out into the Schottegat. Doesn’t that mean we need only advance on this side to be sure we have ’em under eye all the time?’
‘Er, yessir.’
‘Very well. Half o’ your men to make a stand here in line, the rest with me.’
They didn’t have the luxury of time to take a cautious approach: they would have to show themselves and rely on those covering them to spot where musket fire was coming from and deal with it.
Kydd, with four men only, ran from bush to tree, dodging until they got close, then dropped to see what they could. There were no lights inside, understandable as such would be aiming points. But there was a menacing, absolute stillness that played on the nerves.
Did the French have an unpleasant surprise waiting? Were they even now squarely in the sights of hidden marksmen waiting for them to trespass before giving away the secret of their presence by opening fire?
Doubts tore at Kydd. The distant firing around Fort Amsterdam was slackening. Now individual shots were all that could be made out. Something had happened. One way or the other there had been a victory won – or lost. There was no more time.
‘Watch out for me!’ he said hoarsely. He got to his feet and sprinted for the door, falling to one side on the expectation of a sudden eruption of armed men.
Nerves keyed up to the limit he listened. Nothing – not even a creak or whisper.
There came the sound of running feet – but it was Dodd arriving to take position the other side of the door.
Kydd stood motionless, listening. Not the tiniest whisper – just the thudding of his heart.
He flashed a warning look at the sergeant. They had to move, and in a violent swing Kydd crashed against the door – and fell sprawling as it gave easily. Dodd stepped over him quickly and went in, bayonet at the ready. Scrambling to his feet, Kydd caught up and, every nerve taut, they moved forward.
There was a sudden crash from a side room. They wheeled to meet the threat. A cat miaowed its annoyance, ran out and was gone.
Cautiously they peered into the room. There was nobody. The other rooms were the same – just the sad debris of a deserted house, the smell of decay. Feverishly they cast this way and that.
At the rear of the house, french windows opened on to a pleasant but overgrown sitting-out area and an ornamental pond that stank with weed. Neglected and shrivelled fruit hung from a small orchard and the grass was thick and rank.
And still there was not the slightest betraying creak or scrape.
Kydd blinked and tried to think, retracing their steps and looking about more carefully.
They searched the house room by room until at last he was forced to accept that there was absolutely nothing anywhere, not the tiniest scrap of evidence to show that this had once been a threatening secret naval base.
‘Call ’em here, Sar’nt,’ he ordered.
The rest arrived, hesitantly looking about, Renzi’s face set tight.
‘Nicholas,’ Kydd asked in a low voice, ‘are you not mistaken in your locations? There’s nothing here to-’
Renzi looked stunned, but managed, ‘It was here, I’ll swear. Just that …’
He went quickly to a side room. ‘This is where …’ He tailed off, staring at the few sticks of mildewed furniture, odorous rubbish in a corner, a broken child’s toy and shook his head in disbelief.
‘But I – I …’
‘You men take the garden. Sar’nt Dodd, I want you to take a good look around outside. Anything – anything at all as will show us where the Frenchies went.’
‘Sah!’
‘Now, Nicholas. I have to ask it of you – you’re entirely sure this is where you were taken?’