He looked back at the fort on the heights, glowering down, dominating the little harbour. It stood on three-hundred-foot near-vertical cliffs, and any attempt to bring L’Aurore inshore to threaten bombardment was risking too much.
The coast on either side away from the harbour was rock-girt and forbidding and, as far as he could tell, had nowhere suitable to land a boat of any kind. The only conceivable place was the pier.
Quite close by, and firmly under the guns of the fort, a convenient fresh-water rivulet lazily issued over the sand.
A road leading along the foreshore was fringed with houses, then disappeared up into the scrub.
Risking ship or lives in a gesture was not warranted. ‘Get us under way, Mr Gilbey,’ he snapped.
‘Um, where to, sir?’
‘West’d. We return,’ Kydd said, with a look daring the lieutenant to comment.
‘Aye aye, sir.’
They fell away before the brisk wind and soon Cape St Blaize turned to an anonymous dark grey and sank below the horizon as he slumped in his chair moodily. Tysoe came and set his table for dinner.
He accepted a glass of claret and as he sipped a thought came. One that swelled and blossomed until he laughed aloud. ‘Ask the master to attend at convenience,’ he ordered, and sat back in satisfaction.
‘I see, sir,’ Bowden said admiringly, putting down his breakfast coffee. ‘During the night we stood out to sea and completed a triangle that sees us the other side of Mossel Bay, and when we appear, it’s as if we’re another ship!’
‘Not quite.’ Kydd helped himself to another roll and applied the plum jam liberally. ‘It’s not L’Aurore that will appear – but a local coaster as will need watering. It arrives near dusk and can’t begin until sun-up.’
‘With men concealed, sir?’
‘Not only men – but a surprise for our biggety Dutchman.’
‘Sir?’
‘First things first, Mr Bowden. We’ve to catch our vessel or we have no plan. Is the coast in sight at all?’
‘The master thinks we’re some six leagues beyond Mossel Bay, sir.’
‘Good. We’ll keep well in with the land and I desire a sharp lookout for any small vessels. I’m to be called the instant one’s in sight.’
As if catching word of their escapade, not a sail blemished the horizon, just simple native craft, a mussel-dredger, after which the bay was named, and a Moorish vessel with a soaring lateen, an exotic token of the utterly different world that lay around the tip of Africa. But no coaster.
Then a hesitant hail from the maintop. ‘I see a – a barky, lying inshore!’
They had just passed a small but lofty headland and opened a very pretty inlet nestled in green bluffs, with a near perfect triangle of white sand at its head. Moored safely to seaward of the breakers was a high-sided two-master – a lugger or schooner: with her gear struck down, it was difficult to tell.
A few buildings perched on the side of one steep slope – was the owner there and willing to hire his vessel? ‘Away the cutter,’ Kydd ordered, after L’Aurore had hove to. Would the local settlers deal with the English enemy? If not, then they were in trouble – by their own admission they were now at peace, and seizing a coastal trader would be deemed piracy.
The boat surfed in on the backs of eager combers in an exhilarating ride through the shallows, and beached with a hiss. Kydd, in plain dress, moved to the bow. He sprang over the gunwale and up the beach before the next wave. Poulden and Stirk loped to his side.
There was a feeling of placidity in the hot sunshine as if the ancient continent were asleep. On the left were a few huts and shanties and Kydd trudged towards them, the pungency of drying fish reaching out to him.
As they neared, a dog started barking, then another. The animals rushed over, mangy and odd-coloured, disputing their progress. An astonished African woman with a basket of fish on her head came to berate them, but stood open-mouthed.
Stirk kicked at the dogs with an oath and they raced off. The little group trudged on. At the end of the beach one shack, larger than the others, had a wide terrace on stilts with wicker chairs and tables proclaiming its trade.
‘We’ll try the tap-house,’ Kydd said. It looked deserted in the afternoon heat but as they mounted the steps an unshaven and tousle-headed white man emerged, wiping his hands on a rag. He stopped in astonishment. Then, on seeing L’Aurore offshore, his face cleared.
‘Do you speak English?’ Kydd pronounced loudly.
A chuckle emerged. ‘I reckon,’ he grunted, ‘seein’ as I was born in Stepney.’
‘Then you’re the very man to help us. Captain Kydd, two of my crew. Now, we’d like to discuss—’
‘Hold hard, Cap’n! This here is the Red Ox mug-house, what th’ Dutch call a wijnhuis on account you’ll get no beer. Now what’ll you be havin’?’
‘Tell me – is there a fort or soldiers close by? If we’re seen . . .’
‘Never. Closest is Mossel Bay an’ he never stirs his arse unless there’s a profit in it f’r him. No, rest easy, shipmates, ain’t no one going to disturb ye here. I c’n recommend the blackstrap, out o’ Stellenbosch, it is. So that’s three, then?’
Kydd gave a tight smile – as long as they had a result by nightfall . . . and there was, of course, the necessity to obtain local information. Aware of the expectant looks from Stirk and Poulden he offered a shilling. ‘Will you take this?’
‘Lord love yer! O’ course. Now m’ tally is Jones, shall we say, an’ I’d admire to know how th’ old country is faring. I don’t get t’ see too many o’ me countrymen out here – I tell a lie, I’ve never even seen hide of an Englishman since—’
‘Later, Mr Jones. What we’d like to do is hire that two-master out there. Do you think it possible?’
‘It’s possible if I say so.’ Three heavy china cups appeared and a rich scarlet liquid was splashed into them from a nameless bottle. ‘Take a snorter o’ that, then. Tell me what ye thinks.’
It was remarkably good: full-bodied and honest, quite distinct from a European claret. ‘A fine drop, Mr Jones,’ Kydd said sincerely, adding, ‘And we’ll need a muzzler each for my stout boat’s crew.’ There would be ribaldry on the mess-decks later as it was learned that the captain had stood a round for them in the line of duty.
He took another sip. ‘You said Major Hooft is interested in profit?’ he prodded.
‘Ye’ve had dealin’s with the bastard already? He’s a militia major only, puts on these dandy-prat airs and he’s aught but a jumped up revenooer, takes a tax on the grains comin’ from up-country an’ there’s not a soul but hates the sight o’ him.’
‘So his fort’s really nothing to speak of?’
Stirk jerked to his feet, swearing and lashing at his trousers until a large lizard scuttled away. He sat again slowly, trying to look casual.
‘Fort? It’s big enough, wi’ great guns an’ all. Tell me, Batavia bein’ y’r enemy, have ye any thought o’ making a strike agin the Cape? It’s a right dimber place as would—’
‘Less’n a week ago we defeated the Dutch at Blaauwberg. Cape Town is ours.’
‘Glory be! So the Cape is British . . .’
‘Well, er, the Dutch governor is still in the mountains with an army – but, never fear, our redcoats are on their way to dispute with him.’
This was met with a cynical smile. ‘Oh? In back-country mountain kloofs he knows s’ well? He’s a-waiting f’r the Boers to come from the veld t’ reinforce him. Then he’ll be down on ye.’
Kydd grimaced and changed the subject. ‘Mr Jones – how is it you, as an Englishman, are suffered to remain free under Batavian rule?’
‘Another beker van die wyn, Cap’n?’ Grinning, Stirk and Poulden pushed their cups forward. ‘It’s like this. There’s every kind o’ human on God’s earth livin’ here, an’ as long as we don’t kick up a moil, the country’s big enough f’r us all, so it is.’