‘Er, may we know what you plan now, sir?’ one ventured.
At first Baird didn’t answer. Then his face closed and he said abruptly, ‘I see no alternative but to go against the castle – and we cannot delay.’
Chapter 4
Kydd took in the now-familiar bustle as the hoarse commands of an army on the move filled the morning air. The troops were forming up in disciplined columns to march the final five miles to the gates of the castle. It was a sombre advance: no piping, no good-natured chaffing, just subdued singing in the ranks. Ahead lay a formidable and bloody task: to reduce a powerful fortification and storm it with nothing but bayonets and heroism.
Kydd rode behind Baird at some way back. There was still awkwardness between them after he had stood firm on the impossibility of a seaward bombardment close in. Situated in the crook of Table Bay, the castle had many guns and there were batteries up and down the shoreline; it was only too apparent to Kydd how these could completely dominate the stretch of water opposite.
There was no doubting the general’s imperative to do something about the odds facing his men but what could he offer? And if it came to rescuing a desperate situation Popham would never allow the larger ships in such shallow, crowded conditions. In any event, given the possibility of a sudden appearance by a French battle squadron, his first duty was to remain ready to stand to seaward.
The tramping column passed Riet Vlei lagoon, a reedy mere with clouds of birds rising to dispute their presence. The coastal road was deserted, not a sign of life on either hand, but Baird had a rearguard posted that could give warning of the sudden issuing of Janssens from his mountain retreat, and others far out on the wing to keep watch for the Dutch reinforcements.
The bay curved around, and as they neared their objective, Kydd felt Table Mountain’s huge presence, frowning on their impertinence, the spacious white streets and houses of Cape Town seeming too fair and charming at this distance to contemplate inflicting military horrors upon them. What terror must be going through the minds of the inhabitants at their approach? They would be aware also that, at any moment, the long-expected Dutch reinforcements might appear over the crest of the foothills and they would be caught between two armies.
The castle came into view: low and compact, it was nevertheless large, star-shaped and with extensive outworks. Floating proudly above all was a huge Batavian standard. And well before they closed with it, they heard, from a lesser fortress at the forward corner of the outer wall, the heavy crump of a single round of artillery. They were being warned.
‘Halt!’ The order echoed down the column. Kydd moved up as Baird took out his telescope and carefully inspected the terrain – the castle, its surrounding cover, the foothills at the base of the massive Table Mountain. At length he lowered it, his face set.
‘There’s no getting past it. It will have to be invested.’ There was a murmur of dismay at the talk of beleaguering the town. ‘And there’s so little damned time,’ he added bitterly.
Kydd looked at him in some sympathy. This was the man who had commanded at the dreadful slaughter that had closed the siege of Seringapatam, and those dark memories must be haunting him now.
Baird snapped the glass shut and turned to his staff. ‘We fall back out of range and set up camp behind that ridge,’ he said, indicating the low rise they had passed. He glanced at Kydd and gave a tired smile. ‘The good captain here has pointed out the difficulties attendant on a sea bombardment. Perhaps he’d be kind enough to advise on the landing of navy cannon as must be in the character of our siege train.’
Kydd nodded uncomfortably. ‘I shall try, sir.’ With an entire army waiting, regiments consuming rations and the Dutch, no doubt, calling in their outlying forces to counter-attack triumphantly, Baird urgently needed answers, not objections. But to land massive naval guns as he wanted would be near impossible. The heaviest, the thirty-two-pounders of Diadem, were monsters, three tons of cold iron. They would have to be slung beneath two launches in order to be moved, and such a contraption coming through the booming surf would result in an uncontrollable, bone-crushing rampage.
And there was the question of the gun carriage. Aboard ship these were precision devices to level the gun, absorb recoil and, in general, lay and control the gun. They were fitted with trucks, small wheels expecting a hard deck, which would be utterly useless ashore. The standard army cannon in the field was a six-pounder so there was no question of trying to fit a thirty-two-pounder to its tiny carriage.
Then Kydd tried to bring to mind what they had achieved at the defence of Acre – but conditions had been different there: a sheltered harbour, a stone wharf, and they had been the defenders, not the attackers. The effect, though, had been dramatic. At three times the size of army cannon, even the smaller naval weapons were not to be scorned. And perhaps four – six of them? Yes, this might work. ‘Sir, in this surf I fear we cannot expect to bring in the biggest guns. Should we fashion a kind of raft it might be possible to get eighteen-pounders to you, the carriage in the nature of a slide as we do employ for our carronades.’
‘Very well,’ Baird said heavily. ‘Make it thus, if you please.’
‘Then I’ll return to my ship if I may, sir, and—’
‘I’d rather you stayed, Mr Kydd,’ he said, adding quietly, ‘I value your counsel. Is there not a lieutenant you might send?’
‘Yes, sir, if you wish it.’ He would do his duty but he had little stomach for land wars and the horrific scenes of a sacked city – he yearned for the clean salt tang of the sea and blessed naval routine.
The camp sprang up in remarkable time, rows of tents at exact spacing covering acres of ground, a flagpole at the centre at the commander-in-chief’s headquarters and sentries posted on all sides.
A flurry of activity resolved to a dispatch rider arriving. ‘Sir, from Lord Beresford.’ The general had been posted to keep watch on Janssens’s Hollanders, left in the mountains after the Blaauwberg battle.
Baird read the message with a frown and stuffed it into his waistcoat. He glanced around his officers. ‘We’re in it for the long haul, it seems. Janssens has crossed over the Tygerbergs and, circling around Stellenbosch, has taken residence in the Hottentot-Hollands range only some twenty or thirty miles away. Not only that but the castle has dispatched a substantial wagon train of cannon and supplies to him there.
‘Gentlemen – we have decisions to make.’
The worst fear of a commander-in-chief at siege – that a powerful army threatened his rear – was a reality. Janssens had a secure mountain stronghold, which would serve as a point of concentration for the reinforcements now converging. When the time was right he would descend to crush the invaders.
The headquarters tent was unfurnished. It served to keep the fierce afternoon sun at bay, but every officer had to remain standing. Baird drank thirstily from a soldier’s canteen, wiped his mouth and turned to address them.
‘My fellow officers. I will not hide it from you. We are—’
‘Sah – Gen’ral Baird, sah!’ It was the regimental sergeant major of the 71st at the door-flap. ‘L’tenant Grant’s compliments an’ he begs you’d come, um, now,’ he finished woodenly, with an odd expression.
‘Very well, Sar’ Major,’ Baird said, and followed him, his officers hurrying along too: nothing short of a grave threat would have impelled the young lieutenant to intrude.