Conquest

‘Kloofnek.’

‘– to fall on him from behind. In this way he’ll not want to be caught with his army straggling out in the open if there’s a chance we’ll strike at his centre.’

‘Very good. Pray continue.’

Of course! That was the solution. ‘So we are giving out that the Losperd’s Bay show with boats is merely by way of enticing him out – and the real landing is at Camps Bay.’

‘Bravo!’ Popham said. ‘Their field commander and governor, General Janssens, is a wily bird. He may or may not fall for it, but at the very least he’ll hesitate before committing his troops this far out from the town and castle.’

At a hurriedly reconvened council-of-war Baird wasted no time. ‘Gentlemen, I’ve given orders that the landing is not to proceed.’

A dismayed hubbub died away at his calm smile. ‘Instead we turn the delay to our advantage. I’m asking Commodore Popham to make a flourish at Camps Bay for the purpose of getting General Janssens to think again of where the landing will be taking place. No army commander would dare to be caught with his column of advance strung out and a landing in his rear.’

There were murmurs of appreciation and Popham avoided Kydd’s eye. ‘Nevertheless, I’m to take precautions, I believe. It’s my desire to set troops on the shores of Africa and to this end I’m dispatching General Beresford with the Twentieth Regiment of Dragoons to the closest sheltered harbour, which is Saldanha Bay in the north. Having established a presence there, he will march down to meet us at the landing or alternatively hold a position. Any questions?’

Kydd had none, but Saldanha Bay, while less than a day’s sail away for a ship, was a march of seventy miles across African wilderness for soldiers weakened by the voyage. If the weather stayed from the west and the main landing was impossible, on arrival they would be cut to pieces while he and the others looked on helplessly.

Any watcher from the dunes would have seen, in the last of the daylight, first a frigate and then other ships detach from the invasion fleet one by one and slip south, in full view, past the castle with the colours of the Batavian Republic and continuing by Cape Town itself, before rounding the point out of sight as a sunset blazed in from the sea. The conclusion would hopefully have been that the British were readying for a dawn assault – and the Dutch commander could congratulate himself for not falling for the gesture at Losperd’s Bay: his forces were still in place and fully capable of defending the town.

Kydd’s little fleet of a single frigate and harmless transports, however, were waiting for a sign. It came in the darkness at a little after two in the morning. Under easy sail well offshore, they felt the wind die to a whisper and then, an hour before dawn, it strengthened – from the south-west.

Signal lanthorns were hung in L’Aurore’s rigging and sail was set for the north. When day broke, they were back in the lee of Robben Island with the invading force and a very different prospect.

The seas were now subdued and the wind, backing yet further into its accustomed summer direction, was no longer a threat. The landing was on.

Brigadier General Ferguson returned from the beaches in fine spirits: he had landed his scouts, who had sighted lookouts but quickly determined that there were no enemy troops in strength lurking under cover behind the sand dunes.

Baird gave his orders for an embarkation. It was going to be a race against time: there could be no doubt now that the landing was taking place and the Dutch must be rushing troops to meet the threat. Only if they could get his own men ashore in time would they have a chance.

While soldiers boarded their boats once again, L’Aurore and Leda manoeuvred to take their bombardment positions each side of the sea-lane the boats would use, anchored both fore and aft and with the springs attached to the cables that would allow the whole ship to be oriented to lay down fire as requested.

At the head of the sea-lane, Diadem was ready with her big guns while the other two 64s lay defensively to seaward and the remainder ranged up and down the shoreline.

Before noon the stage was set and the signal was given. Galvanised into motion, the boats began the fearful passage to the beaches under a hot sun. But from their lofty height lookouts had spied a disturbing turn of events. There had been no time for the Dutch to march up to confront the landing but a commando of the burgher cavalry had been spotted: their horses had enabled them to be quickly on the scene and now they would be taking position in unknown numbers up and down the dunes to blaze fire into the helpless boats.

High in the tops of L’Aurore, sharp-eyed midshipmen relayed bearings to the gun- deck and her guns opened up in a slam of sound. A storm of iron tore into the dunes, sending up high gouts of sand and scattered clods all along the dune crests. When Leda joined in, the fire intensified into a continual bombardment that numbed the senses.

It was a hideous experience for the Dutch, but it gave heart to the seamen, straining in their heroic dash at the oars, and the soldiers sitting helplessly. War pennons fluttered bravely from some, the legendary colours to plant on the beach as their rallying point. From others, kilted pipers nobly played their defiance, and in all, the feathered bonnets and splash of scarlet of the famed regiments of Scotland.

When the boats reached the beach it would be another matter. The cannonade must lift and then they would be on their own. All would then turn on whether the enemy had fled or merely taken cover to rise again.

As they neared the shore Kydd ordered his guns silent. At first nothing stirred among the dunes. Then a tell- tale puff of white smoke rose, and another, until a regular fire was coming from up and down the beach. These were the heroes among the enemy who had not abandoned their post and were going to dispute the landing – but thankfully the ominous concussion of a field gun charged with grapeshot, which could quickly turn the landing into a bloodbath, was absent.

He watched as the many boats began to converge on the assault beach between the two rock ledges in a congested surge; if they could land together they stood a better chance but this was at the cost of fatal crowding – over to the left a boat slewed sideways as it took a rock. Under the impetus of the surf it rose and fell, capsizing instantly and throwing the heavily encumbered soldiers of the 93rd into the depths. Kydd craned to look, but of the forty-odd in the boat there were only three or four heads in the water, the rest choking out their last moments of life beneath the sparkling green sea.

The first boat grounded, soldiers clambering out awkwardly in their haste. Making the beach, an officer turned