‘We sail for Cape Town immediately,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll remind you that you’ll be constantly under the guns of my frigate, but in so far as there is no interfering with the navigation of this ship, your men will not be confined. Any attempt at a rising will result in their instant restraint in fetters below decks. Is that clear, sir?’
He got to his feet, angry at not having thought of some cunning ruse to weasel the man’s secrets from him. Poncelot rose too, with a slight bow and clicking of heels in the continental way, still with his maddening smirk. What was he missing?
It was a straightforward enough task to ready the brig for sea. Bowden was appointed prizemaster and old Teazers, sailors from Kydd’s first command, a similarly rigged vessel, were sent over to replace its crew, who were hauled aboard L’Aurore. Night hails and countersigns were issued, sea-bags swung into boats and the little convoy put to sea.
Kydd went to his cabin to write his dispatch. Dissatisfied with the wording, he went up for air, frowning at the anonymous low coastline slowly passing. Stirk was supervising his mate’s crew at work on a carronade and looked up at Kydd’s arrival, touching his forehead with a pleased grin.
Then Gilbey came up hesitantly beside him and doffed his hat. ‘Sir, I’m t’ say I stand well chided for m’ lack o’ faith.’
‘As so you should.’
‘A brig an’ fifty Frog lobsterbacks – a good day’s work, I believe.’
‘No,’ Kydd replied curtly. ‘Not so. There’s villainy afoot and I got nothing about it out of the Frenchman. Something wicked – we’re having to leave it astern and it damn well sticks in my throat.’
He turned on his heel and went below to resume the dispatch. As he finished his work, there was a soft knock at the door.
It was Curzon, with a sailor standing a little way behind him. ‘Gunner’s Mate Stirk, sir. Wishes a word.’
‘Very well.’
Tobias Stirk padded in, remaining standing but with a wolfish smile. His bare feet and big splayed toes on the chequered floor-cloth brought a smothered grin from Kydd in remembrance of times past.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Stirk?’
‘Ah. It’s just t’ say I overheard what ye said t’ Mr Gilbey about the mongseer not bein’ straight wi’ ye an’ all. Thought it not right, he a Frenchy. So me an’ Wong just had an interestin’ yatter wi’ one o’ the brig’s quartermasters. A bit shy at first, but we got there in th’ end.’
‘He’s not, as who’s to say, damaged at all?’
‘He’ll recover, Mr Kydd.’ Stirk grunted dismissively. ‘Now here’s what he let on about. Seems this is their third an’ final voyage out o’ Mauritius wi’ cargo f’r some sort o’ rat-hole along the coast. First they lands muskets, then powder an’ now a parcel o’ soldiers t’ finish with.’
A secret base! This was more like it. ‘Where is this, er, port?’
‘Ain’t a port as ye’d know it, sir, more like up a river out o’ sight, jury-rigged like.’
‘Go on.’
‘They’s to land their gaff, hand it over t’ some cove who he’s heard is goin’ t’ rouse up the blacks b’ givin’ ’em muskets against us. Right scareful, he says, they bein’ such a fierce bunch o’ cannibals an’ all.’
Kydd felt a rising excitement – but there must be more to it. Then he realised that if there was a big enough insurgence, there would be no alternative but to send a strong force to quell it, leaving Cape Town open to a direct assault.
So devilish! So well planned – and it had turned out that the delivery of these soldiers to direct the native army was the final move before the frontier was set aflame. With so much at stake, no wonder Africaine had been sent as escort, and so desperate to see the brig to its final destination and do all it could to prevent word of their presence getting out.
None the less, the brig’s capture would soon become known and replacements sent. The only sure way to prevent the inevitable was to destroy the base and its weapons.
‘This is deadly important,’ Kydd said, with intensity. ‘We must find this port and wipe it out before everything takes fire. Did your friend say where it was?’
‘No good askin’ him,’ Stirk said sorrowfully. ‘He ain’t got the navigation. Says as it’s up a river, is all.’
To search every inlet, every river, in the south of Africa was out of the question. Should he put pressure on the officers? Renzi’s logic would say that for the good of the greater number an individual might suffer, but this was not in Kydd’s nature – besides, these hard-bitten characters would never talk.
But there was another way.
On deck Kydd hailed the startled officer-of-the-watch. ‘Heave to the brig – we’re boarding.’
Calloway was sent across with strict instructions to Lieutenant Bowden, and in short order was back with a bagful of material recovered from the captain’s quarters and cuddy. It was emptied and spread out on Kydd’s cabin table, pieces of screwed-up paper, the ship’s log, nameless scribbles, receipts.
He called Gilbey in and they got to work. The ship’s charts had not been found, probably destroyed, which was a setback. The log was disappointing as welclass="underline" although it disclosed the name of the port and even the river it was useless information – they had been hopefully called Port Bonaparte and the Josephine River.
That left the hard way. Both officers knew intimately what they were looking for: the scratch workings of navigation for calculating a position; meridional parts, sun’s total correction and the rest. The papers were smoothed out and examined one by one, and any that had revealing figures were carefully put aside. They were in two separate hands, presumably the captain’s and the mate’s, both slapdash and difficult to follow.
Then Gilbey had the thought that, as the vessel was approaching from the east, the workings with the longitude furthest west should be looked at first. And with that, wrested from the mass of numbers, a track emerged – which must lead to the mouth of the river. There, and repeated, was the precious information they sought: the latitude and longitude of the secret base.
Quickly they moved to the position on the chart – but this was a scaled copy of a Dutch one and showed little detail. No doubt the little river did not warrant notice but now it certainly would.
There could be no delay. The base had to be destroyed – now.
Kydd and Gilbey set to on a plan of action. In this instance a sizeable frigate was not an asset but she carried boats, and these could be made to go up rivers. How to equip them? Fitting for a standard cutting-out expedition or the boarding of an enemy was well practised, but attacking some sort of defensive position up an African river?
They needed more local knowledge and one source was readily to hand. It was put to the brig’s crew that if they were helpful, their status as prisoners-of-war might well be favourably reviewed. They most readily fell in with it. But their information was limited: a sand-bar was across the mouth of the river, which required boats to be kept inside; cargo was landed on the beach and hauled over the bar to the waiting boats, then taken up-river to the base, which was a mile or so upstream. That, and – unwelcome news – an army of ten thousand Xhosa warriors camped nearby massing for the uprising.
There was little else they could add besides the fact that a mysterious Frenchman living with the Xhosa was directing the whole operation; he was keeping the muskets and powder under guard until the French veterans arrived to issue them.
On the face of it, the odds were ludicrous, the only possible thing in their favour being surprise.
How to get heavy boats across the sand-bar? How to cow an army of ten thousand? How to achieve total destruction? There were just too many questions, which could only be answered with stealthy reconnaissance.