‘Certainly. But with the conditions.’
‘Sir, you lie helpless under our guns! And you talk of conditions?’
Francken drew himself up. ‘I must insist,’ he said stiffly. ‘Sir – we are a nation of honour! I cannot allow—’
‘Very well. What are these conditions? Be aware that I cannot speak for my commander-in-chief should these terms be adverse to His Majesty’s arms.’
Stubbornly, the officer tried to explain. Eventually Kydd understood. He excused himself and went once more to the jetty. ‘One boatkeeper,’ he bellowed to his barge laying off. ‘The rest to step ashore.’ A shame-faced urchin came up with his sodden hat, retrieved from the breakers, which he shook and clapped on, glowering.
The boat’s crew scrambled up and assembled behind Kydd. He bowed to the officer and turned to address his bewildered men. ‘Stand up straight, y’ scurvy villains!’ he growled. ‘We’re about to take a surrender from the Dutch but he’s insisting on a good show in front of the locals. We’ve no Jollies right now so you’ll have to do.’
Stirk caught on quickest and wasted no time in hurrying out to take charge as ‘sergeant’.
‘Stan’ to attention!’ he roared hoarsely, glaring at them.
They obeyed with enthusiasm, if in highly individual poses. ‘Belay that, Toby!’ Poulden blurted in dismay. ‘I’m cox’n an’ it’s me as—’
‘Silence in th’ ranks!’ Stirk ordered gleefully, then twirled about and knuckled his forehead to Kydd. ‘Surrender party ready f’r inspection, sir!’
So it was that grave military courtesies were exchanged that marked the reluctant yielding by one to the overbearing forces of the other, and while Kydd and Francken solemnly conferred, the barge was sent back with orders for the ship.
On the flagpole at the landing place, the Batavian flag descended as a gun salute thudded out importantly from the frigate. The English Union Flag was bent on, and as it slowly rose an identical salute banged out.
Honour satisfied, there was nothing more to do than shake hands and depart, with a promise to send later perhaps a more permanent form of soldiery for an official ceremony.
Mossel Bay, the last defensive work on Kydd’s list, was some way further along the coast and was very much an unknown quantity. A port serving the frontier region of Boer settlement, it had tracks radiating out into the vast interior to exchange produce for trade goods.
How had the Boers taken their colony’s sudden reversal of fortune? Would they fight to the last for their lands? Or had they no inkling of what had befallen their largest town?
Stretching out along the scrubby red-brown coast they made the prominence of Cape St Blaize before noon of the second day. Mossel Bay lay around the point, and at this remoteness the sudden appearance of a frigate could have only one meaning.
The foot of the cape was seething white with, further out, a welter of conflicting seas betraying the presence of Blinder Rock, carefully marked on the chart. In tiny words along the edge the information was offered that, centuries before, the Portuguese navigator Dias had reached this far to prove that there was a route east to the riches of the Indies and Cathay. Kydd gave a wry smile: Renzi would have delighted in the knowledge.
Like so many of the havens in the south of Africa, this was open to the south-east and thus a lee shore, but as they rounded the cape well clear, the defending fort was quickly spotted. Squarely at the tip of the promontory, the national flag streaming out, this was a much more substantial structure. Low, squat and pierced for guns, it was well placed to command the scatter of buildings below and could reach out and destroy any who dared to threaten the score or so of various craft huddled within the curl of shore beyond.
Once more his barge put out, its large white flag prominent, L’Aurore at single anchor with her colours in plain view. As they neared the shore the landing place came into sight, a sturdy pier advancing into the sea, quite capable of taking alongside coastal brigs – or smaller troop transports.
Well before they reached it, a file of soldiers trotted out and formed line. An officer arrived, dismounted from a white horse, and stood watching their approach, his arms folded arrogantly.
Kydd mounted the boat stairs, conscious that, despite Tysoe’s best efforts, his uniform sagged and was tarnished with seawater. The officer waited, obliging Kydd to come to him. Dressed distinctively in a blue coat with red facings and silver epaulettes, his black boots were immaculately polished and he wore a tricoloured sash about his waist.
His features were dark-tanned and hard, and he stood with ill-concealed animosity.
‘Captain Thomas Kydd of L’Aurore frigate. I bring greetings from His Britannic Majesty,’ Kydd opened. In his limited experience, most Dutch had English, unlike the French. ‘Sir, I come with news of—’
‘Major Hooft, Fifth Regiment of Pandours. You wish a parley, sir?’ he snapped, slapping his side impatiently with a riding crop made of the tail of some African beast.
‘Sir, I bear tidings from the governor concerning the present situation,’ Kydd said carefully.
‘Ver’ well.’ He spat an order at the African sergeant and stalked off towards the small town, leaving Kydd to follow in undignified haste. There was a factor’s office near the wharf and Hooft went in with a crash of doors. ‘Uit!’ he bellowed. ‘Iedereen krijgt uit!’
Frightened clerks spilled out into the sunlight, blinking and confused. ‘We speak now!’ Hooft threw at Kydd. He took the biggest chair and sat legs outstretched, looking up at Kydd. ‘Well?’
Kydd handed a document to him. ‘The governor prays you will understand the necessity of coming to an early arrangement for—’
‘Wat een zottenpraat?’ Hooft shouted, waving the paper. ‘How dare you, sir?’
‘Major Hooft, I don’t understand—’
‘Why, this is signed by an Englishman! Governor? Apekop!’
Kydd held his temper with difficulty. ‘You may not be aware that after a recent battle there is a capitulation. Here is the proof – signed by Baron von Prophalow himself.’
‘Ha! I have heard of Blaauwberg – a temporary reverse at arms only. Prophalow had no right to sign a capitulation while our forces regrouped. It’s a treachery! The true governor of the colony is at Swellendam at the head of his army, and if you think I betray him while our colour still flies then you insult me, Captain,’ he thundered.
‘I beg you reconsider, sir. Our landings are complete, we—’
Hooft shot to his feet. ‘Go, sir!’ he said in fury. ‘Go before I order my men to deal with you as you deserve.’
Kydd forced himself to remain calm. ‘My ship—’
‘Will be fired on if it’s still there in one hour.’
‘Sir. If you fail to come to terms with me, it must be reported to my commander and unfortunate consequences will in course ensue.’
Lifting his crop, Hooft slowly advanced on Kydd, smacking it into his palm. ‘You threaten me? I’ll remind you, Mynheer, that we are enemies and we are still at war.’
Kydd stood his ground, holding the man’s gaze steadily.
‘So!’ The whip hovered an inch from his nose. ‘I give you five more minutes on Batavian soil – then I come for you, hein?’
Kydd had no option but to return to his ship and did so. On the face of it the encounter had been absurd. For all the man knew, the frigate in the bay could well have held numbers of troops ready to storm ashore – but then again, he would be aware of how fraught a task that would be for Kydd under the guns of his fort.
There was no way Kydd’s orders included starting a war on his own. He must allow the arrogant prig his triumph, return and admit to General Baird that there was still one significant defensive work manned and active in his rear.