‘So as allies o’ the French it puts ’em as enemies to us. They fight like tigers let loose, and I’ll confide to you, Nicholas, I have my qualms about our enterprise.’ To Kydd, the fraught battle with the Dutch at Camperdown in 1797 had been on a par for bloody brutality with Trafalgar.
‘Just so. And considering the strategics I’ll not be surprised to hear they’ve reinforced their vital waypoint to the east at the Cape – or the French, distrusting them, have sent their own forces.’
They paced along, silent for a space. Then Kydd said quietly, ‘They’ve much to be proud on, Nicholas – a century or so ago they had a navy and trade to conjure with before we rudely gathered it all in from them. And now t’ be brought so low . . .’
‘It’s not the Dutch people we oppose, only their present government – the Batavian Republic as is controlled by Napoleon. I suspect the ordinary people have their views. Or not – recollect that the country is riven between the republicans, who applauded the French Revolution, and the Orangists, who want nothing more than a restoration of the monarchy. How deep does this go?’
Any further musing was cut short by the appearance of Midshipman Calloway, who had been dispatched by Lieutenant Gilbey to inform the captain that gun crews were closed up for drill and inspection.
This was Kydd’s invariable practice: the guns in the forward half of the gun-deck were manned on both sides and practice would then take place, starboard against larboard. The winners would have the satisfaction of looking on lazily while the losers were obliged to go through their motions once more, this time to ribald encouragement.
Later in the evening Kydd and Renzi relaxed in his cabin, admiring the last of the sunset. ‘A singular continent, Africa,’ Renzi said expansively. ‘Egypt and an ocean of desert in the north, the prehistoric darkness of equatorial forests in the centre and – and whatever we will find in the south. Elephants, giraffes and quantities of snakes, I’ve heard.’
Kydd grimaced. ‘Did you hear of Mungo Park’s explorations to Timbuktu at all? Sent by Sir Joseph Banks to go up some river and after two years came back with aught but his horse, a compass and a tale as would put any fo’c’sleman t’ the blush.’
‘Yes, I did read something of it,’ Renzi murmured, aware that the account of the adventure had been put out by John Murray, the publisher who had turned down his own tome. ‘And he was given another perilous exploration and is now vanished from the ken of civilisation.’
He put down his glass. ‘But what sights he must have seen! Giant waterfalls, grand mountains – wild beasts unknown to civilised man, tribes of pygmy savages—’
Kydd chuckled. ‘As if you would wish to get lost with the poor wight among all those cannibals and such.’ The look he received in response made the smile fade from his face.
As they closed with the coast, tensions increased. These were unknown waters to all aboard – Kydd had rounded the Cape several times but always at a respectful distance; the grand sea route to the Indies was a relatively narrow band of waters some dozen miles offshore to the south. If the French were at large they’d be there. With their numbers and force, they had nothing to fear from the British and everything to gain by straddling the shipping lanes.
This was where L’Aurore would venture in her sweep eastward, a week’s sail around against the wind and current, then a fast week or less back. They had the advantage that a large squadron would be easier to spot and their own rapid retreat would be put down to reasons other than scouting for an invading force.
The sailing master knocked softly at the great cabin and entered.
‘Ah, Mr Kendall – you’re not so familiar with African waters, I hear,’ Kydd said.
‘No, sir,’ he replied levelly, ‘but I’ve good enough charts ’n’ rutters. They did a fine piece o’ work afore in the surveying hereabouts.’
‘Good. Shall you now tell me your understanding of these parts?’
Kendall said gravely, ‘Why, sir, I c’n do that in one. This is not y’r northern seas, English Channel an’ similar. This here is all ruled b’ the oceans.’
He went on to explain. Much simpler than the complex weather patterns of the north, here the continent ended, extending into the Southern Ocean, a globe-encircling mass of water that endlessly marched on eastwards with mighty seas driven up by the virtually constant westerlies.
Where Europe was dominated by the vast land mass of Asia to the east, here there was only the empty expanse of the Indian Ocean stretching all the way to Australia, but subject to a seasonal wind reversal as regular as clockwork – the monsoons.
Therefore the Cape could rely on predictable wind patterns – a strong north-westerly with heavy rain in winter, and brisk, dry south-easterlies in summer. And now, of course, here in the southern hemisphere it was high summer. There was notorious variability at times, but the ruling pattern was there.
For the sailor there were further points of interest. To the east of the Cape a warm current swept down from the tropical north, the Agulhas, narrow and strong, which, with the powerful north-east monsoon, sped rich Indiamen rapidly homeward. Down the east coast it also kept the luxuriant rain-forests suitably wet and humid.
To the west of the Cape it was the opposite: from the south polar regions the cold Benguela current pressed northward along the coast. And once the Mediterranean pleasantness of the Cape had been passed, some of the most arid and desolate desert regions on earth resulted.
‘What of the ports – harbours o’ refuge and such?’ Kydd wanted to know.
‘Aye, well, it’s a God-forsaken place, no need for ’em, just a few settlements as can trade wi’ the natives.’
‘So there’s nowhere our French battle squadrons may lie to refit and store?’
‘No, sir,’ Kendall said positively. ‘We meet ’em at sea or not at all.’
They made rapid progress along southern Africa as it trended around and up the east coast. The days were balmy, a long, languorous swell doing nothing to slow them, the distant land always to larboard, blue-grey and mysterious.
Then their course began shaping north as they rounded Cape Agulhas. Kydd was now satisfied that there was no enemy fleet abroad and the two innocent neutrals he had stopped had confirmed this. It was time to return.
On this leg they would keep with the land, lookouts alert for betraying clusters of masts inshore.
Kydd consulted the charts once more. The notes in the pilot were insistent that mariners be not trapped into error: vessels from Europe sailing from the other direction should never feel tempted to put over the helm after rounding the Cape of Good Hope for the run up the east of Africa; if they did, they would find themselves in a vast cul-de-sac, False Bay, which, if the wind was in the south, they would never get out of.
Yet it seemed this directly south-facing bay had its uses as a welcome haven during the winter months when the north-westerlies hammered in on the open roadstead of Cape Town. The Dutch apparently maintained a small maritime establishment in the most sheltered part, Simon’s Town, to supply the ships waiting out the gales there. Kydd could see that such facilities would be attractive indeed to any commander with large ships and far from home. He decided to look in on it.
The chart showed False Bay as being in the shape of a lobster claw, the unattractively named Cape Hangklip on the east tip and the Cape of Good Hope to the west. On the open sea the wind was steadily in the south-south-east but he was too much the seaman to think that it would necessarily prevail within the bay.
They were coming up with Cape Hangklip: it was sometimes confused with the real Cape, out of sight on the other side, and unwary westbound ships thinking to turn up for the final run north would similarly find themselves embayed, hence the name – False Bay. Kydd, though, was noticing its steep, rearing form: there would be useful winds curling around in its lee, and prudence suggested they made use of this feature for a rapid exit should there be an enemy within.