Conquest

to gesture imperiously for his standard. Not far behind the green-feathered light infantry, stumbling at first in the soft sand, began moving out, some firing from the kneel and others pressing on up the beach.

They were taking casualties; men were dropping. An officer spun and fell – Kydd thought he recognised the fiery Pack – but troops were spilling ashore fast and the musket fire from the dunes began to slacken.

The experienced Highlanders of the 71st knew their business. Picked squads of agile light companies trotted up and down the beach and disappeared into the sand-hills. A sizeable company assembled in extended order and, muskets at the port, stormed inland.

More boats crowded ashore; now field equipment was being landed, portable howitzers, light field-pieces, even horses, as all hostile fire was silenced. Knots of men gathered at the standards waiting for orders, while an improvised signal mast let fly the hoist that declared the beachhead secure. Against all probability, the expedition had seized a foothold on the shores of Africa.

Somewhere out of sight beyond the fringing dunes, defensive lines were being set up, pickets told off and troops placed in readiness for the expected counter-attack. A determined strike could see them in serious trouble for their tenuous hold must urgently be translated to real strength – stores of all kinds, rations, ammunition, water in the keg: all had to be landed to make this possible.

Word came that a strong body of troops had been seen issuing from the castle, joined by others further along in what could only be the deploying of an army, but it was too late in the afternoon to fear action that day and the vital stores continued to flood ashore.

Aboard L’Aurore there was great satisfaction. They had done their part and the Army had done theirs. The British flag was well and truly planted ashore, and in the near future there would be a bloody battlefield where the Dutch would have to make their stand against the invaders.

The ship had performed creditably and would still have a part to play in support, but for now Kydd contented himself with reverting to single anchor, the cable buoyed for quick release. They were ready for any orders – but when they came they were completely unexpected: Kydd was to attach himself to the general’s staff as naval liaison.

He was to land with a lieutenant of signals set up to communicate with his ship, which, with the shallowest draught, had been chosen to act as close-in gunfire support, a fearsome mobile battery. The main coastal road ran close to the foreshore and it took little imagination to conceive of the havoc that would be inflicted by a broadside against columns of troops marching up in reinforcement. Although he would do his duty ashore, Kydd did not relish being out of his ship – the French squadrons could still make an appearance – but at least with L’Aurore so close he could be back aboard quickly.

‘Mr Bowden!’ he called.

‘Sir?’

‘Find yourself a likely midshipman and two hands – you’re going a-signalling in Africa!’ The details of how communications would be maintained he would leave as an exercise for the young man to present later.

What should a naval captain wear at a campaign headquarters on the field of battle? If the ancestral portraits he had seen were anything to go by, then only the most ornate full dress would do. Uneasily he remembered his experiences with the Army ashore. As a young lieutenant in Menorca, seconded to the land forces, he had returned on board his ship, victorious but hopelessly tattered and dusty, in stark contrast to the imposing Major General Paget, whose turn-out had always been impeccable.

‘Tysoe!’ He summoned his valet. ‘I’m to join the Army for a spell. Pray lay out some kit.’

The sun was sinking out to sea in glorious golds and reds when he boarded his barge and was taken ashore with a single sea-chest. The summer evening wafted alien scents to him as he stood on the beach waiting for his escort. Harsh chittering and hidden rustling among the dune grasses spoke of the mystery and danger of the great continent, but in a way he felt disappointed: this was nothing like the steaming jungle of his imagination.

‘Sah!’ A splendid-looking sergeant major saluted and a pair of orderlies hefted the chest. They climbed into the dunes and found the path. Off the beach the roar of the surf turned to a muffled boom, and away from the sea breeze, the air became close and hot. They passed chains of soldiers handing along stores, and burial parties, stripped to the waist, interring the dead where they had fallen.

Away in the distance a trumpet brayed, shouted orders faintly on the air. Kydd was conscious of the soldiers panting behind with his chest for it was heavy going in the soft sand. They left the dunes and were crossing a field of greens, sadly trampled and obviously belonging to the whitewashed farm with thatched roof ahead.

Kydd felt resentment that Tysoe had insisted on full undress uniform and sword. In his formal coat and large bicorne fashionably over his nose he was beginning to itch and sweat; on the open battlefield in the full heat of day it would be unendurable.

With much stamping of feet and crashing of muskets his presence at the farm was recognised and he was greeted by an affable major. It seemed he was now at Baird’s headquarters and was most welcome.

Inside, the comfortably worn flagstones and thick walls held a surprising cool and Baird came to greet him. ‘A fine show by the Navy!’ he grunted. ‘Their lordships shall certainly hear of my approbation of their conduct this day, Captain!’

Seeing the major and general-officer-commanding faultlessly attired in the ceremonials of a Highland regiment, Kydd had now to be grateful for Tysoe’s insistence in the matter of dress.

‘You’ll join us at supper?’

Kydd bowed politely and was shown into a cosy room, obviously the farmer’s pride, with its quaint Dutch furniture and tableware on display in the dresser racks. Now it was a senior officers’ mess, and round the table, jovial colonels and brigadiers sat and chatted expansively about the day’s events.

‘A dram wi’ ye!’ said the red-faced MacDonald, Lord of the Isles and colonel of the 24th Regiment of Foot, handing Kydd a glass. The golden sparkle was the best malt whisky and quickly set him aglow.

‘A right true drop!’

‘Och, as it’s a Speyside out o’ yon Duncan Knockdunder’s casks,’ MacDonald admitted smugly. There was movement in the dark outside – a massive bulk loomed against the window. MacDonald beckoned and the door opened.

An enormous figure in kilt and feathered bonnet stepped into the bright candlelight holding himself with intense