Their army now broken and isolated, there was little the Dutch could do except call a general retreat. Trumpets bayed, and while gallant bands still held their ground and fought, most took flight. It turned to a rout, fleeing Batavians throwing aside their equipment in their terror as they made off south.
Baird punched the air in elation. ‘That I had the cavalry to harry them now!’ He swore, then recollected himself and raised his telescope to scan the scene. Abruptly he lowered it and looked about him. ‘Ah, Captain Kydd,’ he called pleasantly. ‘If you would oblige me, sir?’
Kydd rode up to the beaming general.
‘The Dutch are in headlong retreat and my brave Highlanders are too fatigued to pursue them. I fancy they are heading for their camp at Riet Vlei to regroup and I wish to dissuade them by means of your excellent frigate. Shall you . . . ?’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Kydd said promptly, raising his arm expectantly. ‘To be signalled,’ he told the waiting galloper, and handed him an order. The officer saluted, wheeled his horse around in the direction of Bowden at the shore signal pole and thudded off.
The arrangement was simple: on their joint diagrams the length of the shore was divided into lettered units of one hundred yards. The point specified, together with a number indicating the required distance inland, would be signalled to L’Aurore. It would be a matter of minutes only before the position would be under a cannonade far more intense than any seen on the battlefield that day. Riet Vlei, some miles to the south, would not be the refuge the Dutch expected it to be.
Baird walked his horse forwards, down the slight gradient over which the First Brigade had marched to glory. The smoke and dust had nearly dissipated and the pitiless glare picked out the trampled field, scattered pieces of kit, and hundreds of bodies lying at random over the arid land. Some still moved, giving out their life in the torture of thirst under the scorching sun; others were still and lifeless, fat black African flies gorging on their congealing blood. Scattered groups of men roamed over the battlefield – whether in plunder or mercy was not clear.
It turned Kydd’s stomach: at sea there was none of the dust, stink or flies; no casual acceptance of heroism and lonely suffering. It was another, cleaner existence where men fought and died but with their shipmates. They were not left to choke out their lives under a cruel sun without a soul to know of it.
They picked their way over the desolation, the general’s face now a mask. A dispatch rider cantered up with a message, which he read with evident satisfaction. ‘They’re on the run, gentlemen. I have it here – they’re attempting to regroup at Riet Vlei.’ He thought for a moment and grunted, ‘I’m told there’s a farm ahead. We’ll set up there until things become clearer.’
It turned out to be one of the pretty whitewashed farmhouses, a little larger than the others and with the infinite blessing of a small pond and spring. Dozens of soldiers drank there thirstily while hundreds more weary infantrymen just sat on the ground, hunched and dazed.
Inside, Baird welcomed his commanders. Dust-streaked, their breeches torn by thorny scrub and hard fighting, their features were lined and marked by their experience. ‘We’ll press on, shall we, sir?’ a grizzled colonel muttered. ‘My lads need a spell only, then they’ll—’
‘They’ll be sore tired. Issue ’em with rum and biscuit after they’ve had their fill of water and we’ll wait to see what the Navy can do to stir up Janssens’s camp with their cannon. He’s yet to receive his reinforcements from inland and I’ve a suspicion we’ll have a tight run of it when he does.’
Kydd knew Bowden would have shifted the signal post down the beach to keep with the tide of battle and would let him know anything of significance. In fact the bombardment would be well under way by now, just as the first of the fleeing army were streaming in. He fancied he could hear the faraway mutter and grumble of the guns of his ship on the still, fetid air.
There was desultory conversation. This farmhouse did not have the cool tiled floor of the other and it was hot and close. Kydd felt an urge to get outside, but not far away, near the waterhole, a field surgeon’s tent had been erected and carts of wounded were arriving, their cries piercing the air. He stayed where he was.
Time dragged. Then a thud of hoofs and a breathless dispatch rider appeared at the doorway. Baird looked up in sudden interest.
‘General, sir!’ the officer acknowledged, extracting a message, which he carried over to Kydd.
It was in Bowden’s young, bold hand. Hurried but precise, it detailed a landing – an unauthorised but successful assault by the Royal Marines under cover of L’Aurore’s bombardment not far from Riet Vlei. Popham must have stripped every ship in the fleet to find enough marines to send in but the bold initiative was a brilliant stroke.
It seemed they had brought a small gun with them, which they had set up atop the dunes and were firing directly into the encampment. A hurried defence had been improvised but had been beaten back by the marines. At the time of writing, his camp denied him, Janssens was attempting a rally further inland.
Baird met the news with barely concealed delight. ‘He’ll have to act boldly if he’s to preserve his army,’ he said gruffly, ‘but Janssens is a wily old bird. Let’s just see what happens.’
Barely an hour later another rider brought a message from scouts out to the south-east. There was no doubting it: the whole Dutch army was on the move. But not to strike back at the weary British – puzzlingly, they were marching at right angles away to the dry, wild country leading to the interior.
‘That will do,’ Baird said crisply. ‘We advance and occupy Riet Vlei. Gentlemen, we’ll sleep in beds tonight. I’m to set up headquarters where the Dutch commander did, I believe.’
The farm buildings at Riet Vlei were extensive and comfortable. In the glory of a setting sun, camp was established and foraging parties fanned out. As the evening drew in, a most extraordinary odour began to hang on the air. It was a space before Kydd could identify it: roast lamb! For the first time in many weeks they were to be granted fresh meat.
Later, replete, and grateful for the absent farmer’s taste in wines, the officers pondered the enemy’s next moves.
‘Then he’s running, sir?’
‘No, Colonel,’ Baird said thoughtfully. ‘But I fear we’ll hear more of Mr Janssens. No – he’s heading for the Tygerbergs no more than five miles or so off, a thousand feet high and steep. My wager is that he’s to throw up a redoubt there while he gathers strength.’
‘Ah – there we have our dilemma, do we not, sir?’ another interjected. ‘Should we move on Cape Town, he lies in our rear and we cannot face both ways.’
‘So I must go after him? There’ll be no easy storming of the Tygerbergs. And I conceive it would be a fine trap for us, should he be luring us to the reserves he’s concealing there.’
‘Then to invest and storm the castle?’
‘Without I have a siege train? Rather the opposite – recall that the majority of Dutch troops must be in the Castle of Good Hope and may sally against us at any time to reverse their fortunes.’
‘The Navy to lay ruin to it?’
Kydd came back immediately. ‘No! The fortifications are too strong and we’d be under fire from heavy guns the whole time. And to lie off in this westerly . . .’
After an awkward silence around the table Baird slowly and deliberately emptied his glass. ‘Then, gentlemen, I’m presented with a quandary. Quite apart from the French arriving at any time to relieve, where are the provisions and water that will supply my soldiers for a lengthy siege? The nearest friendly territory is to be reckoned in thousands of miles away, I’ll remind you.’