Inside, the comfortably worn flagstones and thick walls held a surprising cool and Baird came to greet him. ‘A fine show by the Navy!’ he grunted. ‘Their lordships shall certainly hear of my approbation of their conduct this day, Captain!’
Seeing the major and general-officer-commanding faultlessly attired in the ceremonials of a Highland regiment, Kydd had now to be grateful for Tysoe’s insistence in the matter of dress.
‘You’ll join us at supper?’
Kydd bowed politely and was shown into a cosy room, obviously the farmer’s pride, with its quaint Dutch furniture and tableware on display in the dresser racks. Now it was a senior officers’ mess, and round the table, jovial colonels and brigadiers sat and chatted expansively about the day’s events.
‘A dram wi’ ye!’ said the red-faced MacDonald, Lord of the Isles and colonel of the 24th Regiment of Foot, handing Kydd a glass. The golden sparkle was the best malt whisky and quickly set him aglow.
‘A right true drop!’
‘Och, as it’s a Speyside out o’ yon Duncan Knockdunder’s casks,’ MacDonald admitted smugly. There was movement in the dark outside – a massive bulk loomed against the window. MacDonald beckoned and the door opened.
An enormous figure in kilt and feathered bonnet stepped into the bright candlelight holding himself with intense pride. It was the pipe major of the 71st, his bagpipes at the ready, the light glittering on his elaborate accoutrements.
The conversation died and the piper looked at Baird, who glanced about him. ‘A Pibroch!’ came a cry. It met with instant acclamation and a grey-haired colonel called across, ‘“The Rout o’ Glenfruin”!’
Baird nodded his approval. In the confined space the squeal and drone of the pipes overwhelmed the senses but their barbaric splendour was deeply stirring. The martial wail set Kydd’s blood racing. Would the man be leading his clan into battle on the morrow? How could any not be moved to deeds of valour by such a sound?
Supper was plain. While common soldiers were out gathering wood for cooking fires to boil their salt beef to gnaw with their biscuits, their general was not about to insist on the formalities. Wine was conspicuous by its absence and there was no napery – but the talk was all of the coming day.
Three terrified Hottentot soldiers had been captured. They had readily shared all they knew: that they came from a large hidden encampment before the Riet Vlei, a marshy area to the south, and that General Janssens was at this moment with his army marching north at speed in the darkness to confront them the next day.
At one point a diffident lieutenant reported: a determined sweep by scouts had secured eight more horses and a picture of the enemy’s forward positions. It could only have been acquired the hard way – in the blackness of the night, stealthily creeping about in the African bush with all its terrors, keyed up for a sudden challenge from an outpost, then a stumbling flight back into the anonymous dark.
They had established that there was a light cavalry position at another farmhouse not far away beyond the ridge and other mounted vedettes in a line to the south. Further, fires had been observed on Blaauwberg, the massive bulk of blue-grey bluffs Kydd had seen from the sea. These would be lookouts in an impregnable situation that would report their every movement when battle was joined.
The foe was closing in, but there was no nervousness that Kydd could detect, just the same brotherly laughter and concern as in a naval wardroom, the precious feeling that was only to be found in a company whose lives the next day would be in each other’s hands.
‘Gentlemen! Be so good as to gather about me,’ Baird announced unexpectedly. An aide passed him a large map, which he smoothed on the table. Two stands of candles were brought near. Their light caught the officers from beneath as they crowded around, their grave expressions a sombre acceptance of what lay ahead.
‘My plans for the day.’ An expectant silence descended. ‘I won’t pretend we’re in a favourable position – far from it. No cavalry, just a few guns, and against us everything the Dutch care to bring to bear.’
He paused, then spoke in measured tones. ‘However, this is no new circumstance for Highlanders and I place my trust completely in their qualities of soldierly ardour and unflinching bravery.’
Grunts of appreciation came but there was no easing in the unblinking stares.
‘Tomorrow we shall be taking the initiative. I now know General Janssens – who is no dilettante – is forming up in line in the plain beyond Blaauwberg. He’s discovered we have no cavalry and is extending his force to dominate the road to Cape Town.
‘In his centre will be his guns – how many I know not, nor his numbers. What I do know is that the French are wholeheartedly with him, both the reinforcements we know of and apparently some hundreds from a privateer the Navy ran on the rocks.’
Kydd started guiltily, but there was no way he could have landed and pursued them in that hostile country.
‘Therefore this shall be an infantry battle, save for our few guns, and all objectives must be taken by storm and main force. I shall attack in column with two brigades, the First on the left, consisting of the Seventy-first, Seventy-second and Ninety-third regiments; the Second on the right, with the Twenty-fourth, Fifty-ninth and Eighty-third. When we are before the enemy, we shall deploy in line. Questions?’
Hazily, Kydd understood that they were advancing with a minimum front while the Dutch artillery was in action and when in musket range would open up to full width opposite the enemy.
‘We do have some guns, sir?’ came from one officer.
‘Six six-pounders and only two small howitzers. I’m at a loss to know how these can be termed a battering train if it comes to a siege. Nevertheless, I’ll point out, if I may, that in this, as in so much other, the Navy is coming to our aid. In the absence of horses, and to release soldiers for duty, they are landing a Sea Battalion whose duty it will be to man-haul the pieces into action and keep up a supply of cannon-balls and powder.’
It was the first Kydd had heard of it but he recognised Popham’s style, a vigorous response to a need. His own orders in respect of the roving battery that was L’Aurore had been properly acted upon. But would his part in the next day’s events be as a spectator or would he be fighting for his life as they were overrun by those Dutch, Malays, Hottentots and Waldeckers?
He sat quietly, listening as the details were laid out. In all his experience he’d never been in a formal clash-at-arms between armies – Acre didn’t count and he’d been away in a sideshow at the final defeat of Napoleon’s army in Egypt. Did the opposing armies perform a courtly salute, a displaying of colours in much the same way as men-o’-war did before opening fire? If nothing else, tomorrow would be an interesting day for a sailor.
The discussion concluded tidily, formal written orders were issued and suddenly there was no more to be done. A toast to the health of Colonel Pack, who had indeed taken a bullet on the landing beach, and a final one to His Majesty, and it was time to retire.
Kydd found it hard to sleep in the hot dimness, smelling the reek of army canvas preservative. The dead feel of the earth under his campaign cot instead of the gentle heave of his ship was unnatural and the strange night sounds of the African bush – any one of which could have been the enemy closing in – were disquieting.
Well before dawn the camp was astir. After watch-keeping at sea Kydd was untroubled by the hour – it was rather what it implied: they were readying themselves for battle, and the first moves would be theirs.
He could sense the tension. The men were taking their breakfast quietly, his own brought by a stolid redcoat, who waited while he finished and then left noiselessly. He stayed where he was until first light stole in and a distant trumpeter played an elaborate air to be taken up on all sides. Shouted commands mingled. He heard the rush of feet and the occasional whinny of a horse on the cool morning air – and then massed drummers began a thunderous tattoo. It was the call to arms.