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As Kydd drew nearer, the ship’s old-fashioned build became clear but it was also evident that this was more like an 80-gun vessel, just as large as Villeneuve’s flagship at Trafalgar. Along the deck-line men were watching their approach. Surely they would not be there if their intention was to repel visitors.

He was hot. The glare of the sun glittered up from the sea, and beat down from the sky, making him itch and sweat.

As they neared the side-steps of the grand old ship, Kydd noted the wonderfully carved work at the rails, the side-galleries and sternwork. It was a standard of ornamentation that would never be seen again in this modern day of utility in a warship. A senior captain in tasselled finery on her quarterdeck bellowed, ‘Ahoj de boot!

Standing to let his uniform be recognised, he hailed back. ‘Captain Kydd, His Britannic Majesty’s Frigate L’Aurore. We wish to come aboard!’

Niet – keep clear or we fire into you!’

‘I wish to discuss—’

‘There’s nothing to discuss. We’re at war, Captain. I open fire in one minute!’

‘I have news!’ Kydd shouted back importantly.

There was a pause. ‘One only to come aboard.’

Punctiliously the boat rounded the great stern where ‘Bato’ was etched in an arch of gold letters on the lower transom. Poulden glided to a stop one inch from the side-steps and Kydd stepped across, noting on the dark hull below the surface long streamers of weed swirling in the current. This ship was sailing nowhere.

Kydd broke into the stillness of the upper deck and, removing his hat as he appeared, bowed to Bato’s haughty commander. ‘Sir, I’m commanded by the governor of Cape Town to enquire your readiness to quit this ship and turn her over to us—’

‘This is your news? A rank impertinence, sir!’

‘Here are my orders,’ Kydd said, handing over a carefully worded document telling of the surrender and enjoining him peacefully to relieve outlying commanders, signed by Baird. A similar one in Dutch was signed by Baron Prophalow, lately commandant of the castle and town.

The man scanned them quickly, then snorted angrily. ‘Zottenklap! This talks of the castle commandant signing away a naval ship. He has no jurisdiction over the Batavian Navy and therefore this is worthless.’

‘It does state, sir, “the defences of Cape Town and all appurtenances thereto”—’

‘You mean to apply that kletspraat to the capitulation of a line-of-battle ship? When our army has suffered but a temporary reverse and its general places his trust in our loyalty? Do you take us for poltroons, sir?’ the captain spat, his colour rising.

‘Not at all, sir,’ Kydd said hastily. ‘It is rather that I deplore the violence and bloodshed that must result from a misunderstanding. Should I not make myself plain, then I have failed my commodore – who is in possession of a squadron of ships-of-the-line – and unfortunate consequences must surely follow.’

From the exchanged glances Kydd knew the implication was well taken. ‘Should you concur,’ he continued smoothly, ‘then, naturally, the honours of war shall o’ course be accorded you in respect to the long traditions of your gallant navy and—’

‘You presume too much, sir!’ the captain snarled. ‘Get off this ship – now!’

‘Sir, if you would—’

‘Now!’

Kydd drew himself up and bowed. ‘Then I am obliged to point out that it is my duty to convey your . . . views to my commodore and the matter will be taken out of my hands. Sir, I beg you will reconsider, if only for the sake of the brave men who must soon die.’

The expression was stony and he went on doggedly with the only card he had left to play. ‘I’ll take my leave, sir, but shall delay my return to the commodore for the space of one hour.’

He paused significantly, looking about the other officers on the quarterdeck, then turned quickly and left. There was a chance that, even given their proud history, he would relent under pressure from the crew, hearing of a squadron of feared Royal Navy battleships nearby.

The passage back gave Kydd time to think. It was a hollow threat he had made: Popham would not take kindly to a request to deal with a situation that should have been resolved diplomatically, that risked his valuable fleet assets with damage that could never be repaired in this distant outpost. In fact, it was most unlikely that he would quit his station directly off Cape Town at this critical time.

Should he leave Bato isolated for dealing with later? There were already soldiers heading south to Simon’s Town in a hazardous march to occupy the only pretence at naval facilities in the colony. If they were met by the murderous broadside of a ship-of-the-line . . .

Expectant faces met him in L’Aurore: was there a likelihood of prize money? They were the only ones present and rules on gun money and head money were very clear. Kydd, however, was in no mood to indulge them.

The dilemma was his alone. At the end of the hour, what should he do? Run back to Popham with his tail between his legs – or fight it out? Or wait until dark and perform a daring cutting-out operation? Against an alerted ship-of-the-line?

His thoughts raced, with no solution in sight. He couldn’t talk it over with Gilbey. A captain made his own decisions and this would be seen as a worrying weakness by his first lieutenant.

The deadline approached. Should he give them more time? How much?

Gilbey broke into his thoughts. ‘Some sort of signal, is that, sir?’

Kydd snatched the glass. ‘That’s their national Batavian flag,’ he said peevishly. ‘I’d desire you’ll take the trouble to recognise it in future.’

Something made him linger on the image. Did this mean they were about to open fire? The flag mounted up the main-mast halyards – but at the truck it rested for a moment, then slowly descended to half-mast where it remained. ‘Barge alongside this instant!’ The hoist could have only one meaning: capitulation. His heart leaped.

Kydd took the surrender in the huge old-fashioned great cabin, fighting down exultation. To his knowledge, not even at Trafalgar had a ship-of-the-line struck to a mere frigate. The terms agreed were straightforward enough: colours to be hauled down immediately and unconditionally, in return for the officers and crew to be allowed ashore to await their fate in the Simon’s Town establishment rather than endure confinement aboard. That was most convenient: only a token party from L’Aurore needed to take possession while the crew would be held in custody later by the approaching soldiers.

Kydd allowed the captain his sword in recognition of the fact that the capitulation was force majeure other than an act of war by L’Aurore. That it was the threat of an English battle-squadron in the offing remained unspoken.

Even as they returned to the upper deck, boats were being swung out and manned by Dutch seamen. The captain kept aloof, avoiding Kydd’s eye.

The seamen, dark-tanned and lithe, tumbled into the boats with their sea-bags as if desperate to be quit of the scene, and it wasn’t long before the captain went to the side, turned stiffly and, after a short bow to Kydd, looked up to where the Batavian flag still flew and removed his hat. After a few moments, and without a second glance, he swung over the ship’s side and was gone, leaving Kydd gloriously alone on the quarterdeck.

He savoured the moment, taking in the forlorn disorder about the decks and the odd smell of a Dutch ship, then strode to the side and signalled for his barge. It came alongside and he motioned the rest of the crew aboard. ‘Haul down the colours, Poulden,’ he ordered. His coxswain had an English ensign under his waistcoat and proceeded to bend it on, sending it soaring up.